


Persephone

by PersephoneA06



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Bisexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Firmin and Andre are canonically bisexual, Gay Sex, M/M, Maybe Erik shows up, Slow Burn, You can't change my mind, like really slow burn, maybe he doesn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26134990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneA06/pseuds/PersephoneA06
Summary: “That didn’t take long. What did she say?”Steadying his breath, Andre let out a nervous puff of air.“You’ll have to excuse me, Firmin. I’m afraid I must take the rest of the day off.”“What did she say?” Firmin persisted. “God, Andre, you’re as pale as death itself.”He should know. They had stared it in the face not too long ago.“Apparently I’m expecting.”
Relationships: Gilles André/Richard Firmin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. The Woman

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 3 AM trash that flows out of my brain when I can ship nobody else in the entire movie.
> 
> This story kind of transitions from focus on one relationship to another.
> 
> Firmin and Andre are gay dads, fuck you
> 
> Please feel free to comment, I love readers' input!

There were so few situations that Andre could not talk his way out of.  
The woman had flown in like a whirlwind, in hot pursuit of him and, it seemed, only him. She careened around the various stagehands and aisles to reach him and Firmin. It was Firmin who stood up first.

“Good morning, Madame. I’m afraid we are not accessible to the public right now.”  
“I’m not here for an opera,” she retorted. At this, she pointed to Andre. “Pardon. I need to speak to the Monsieur behind you.”  
“On what business, may I ask?”

Andre studied the woman more intensely. As he stood to adjust his tunic (a trick he learned from Firmin long ago to assert superiority over a potential threat), something in her piercing gaze rang bells of familiarity in his mind. He had seen her face before. The coiled brown locks were unmistakable, as were those rich emerald eyes. Yes, he had seen her before.

“Personal business between Monsieur Andre and myself. Excuse me, Monsieur.”

She took a step to reach out for Andre, but was blocked by Firmin’s arm. Andre watched with interest as they locked gazes again, struggling to keep up civility.

“I am sorry, Monsieur, but I am quite pressed for time.”  
“Firmin,” Andre spoke finally, finding his voice rather dry. “I’ll only be a moment. I can take this.”

He crept past Firmin and the madam, who trailed hot on his heels as he led the way to his office.  
It was a bit bare. Having once been lavished with books and statues of very little value to Andre himself, after the fire, he took care to only keep the bare necessities in the office – an old desk with a drawer missing he’d found in a scrap yard, two threadbare lounge chairs, two bookshelves on either corner behind his desk, and a rickety office seat for himself.

“I would offer you a drink,” he started as the woman sat herself down opposite his desk, “but I’m afraid Monsieur Firmin was in a rather charitable mood and helped himself.”  
“No need, Monsieur.”

Rather pompously (it was _his_ office, after all), once he sat down, he tossed his feet up on the desk and crossed one leg over the other. He smiled amiably at the woman, ready to talk his way out of whatever charity case or tax claim this woman might be selling.  
“What might I do you for, my lady?”

Curiously, her eyes averted and looked down at her hands, threading her thin fingers together.

“I’m … not sure how to tell you this, Monsieur Andre. I know now is a very pressing time for you – for both of us, actually.”  
“Am I being asked for a charitable transaction, Madame? I’m afraid I’m spent. I put in a rather sizeable donation last year to the soup kitchen over in Rouen. Lovely city. I spent my budding adulthood there.”

He flashed a smile, faltering as he noticed that she was still wringing her hands together.

“I’m not part of a charity brigade, Monsieur, I assure you.”  
“Have we met before, Madame?” he asked, scratching his chin. “You do seem awfully familiar. May I have your name?”

She finally looked up at him. Had he known better, he would say she seemed … _frightened?_

“My name is Natalia Bay. We have met before, Monsieur. Uhm …” She looked down again, taking in a great breath and humbly twiddling with her nails. “I was a member of your entourage for a holiday party you hosted here several years ago.”

He rested his chin on his knuckle, thinking. The holiday parties at the opera house in their first year were … memorable. Ghosts and murder aside, the year for Andre and his loyal companion was a torrent of partying, shopping, escorting various young women, drinking, and more than a little pinch of nose powder to keep him awake in those days.

“You very well could have been,” he resigned as he pushed the chair back and stood. She was quite beautiful. “I’ve tried rather well to push that year from my mind. I am very sorry, Mademoiselle, but I really do need to oversee rehearsals today. If you’d like to schedule a visit –”  
“We had a somewhat personal connection that night,” she said, reaching his eye again. Her eyes were rather formidable for being so short. “I do need to talk. It is important.”  
“Then I suggest talking, Miss Bay, and getting to the point. I don’t wish to rush you off, but I do have papers that need attended to. Theatre management is busy work.”

Bouncing on her heels for a moment, she cleared her throat.

“We had sex that night.”  
Unsure of how to respond, but unable to put the possibility away, he said, “Ah.”  
“I wanted to return to you, for assistance, but then … the fire ate all your assets.”

A nasty burn rose up to heat his face. He didn’t wish to remember more often than he had to.

“Mademoiselle, if you came here to talk to me about collecting assets –”  
“I have a daughter.”

This piqued his attention. Raising a brow, he studied her again, watching as her hands trembled but she forced her eye up to his once more.

“She is _your_ daughter,” she corrected.

A chill flared from the twist in his stomach to his face.  
Well now, what was he supposed to say to _that?_  
Keeping his face even, Andre slowly sat down again, his smile fading. Stiffly he gestured for Natalia to sit down again. For a very long, painful minute, there was silence between them as Andre wrung his hands together and stared at the desk in contemplation, and Natalia gauged his stony expression.

“How old is she?” he asked, not meeting her eye.  
“She is six, Monsieur.”  
“Birth date?”  
“The first of October. She was two weeks past my expected delivery date.”  
“Mm.”

There was another long pause, wherein Andre continued to contemplate and Natalia watched intently. Andre rubbed one of his knuckles. Neither was sure if the other one was even breathing.  
Finally he opened one drawer, pulled out a checkbook, and began to reach for the ink pen.

“How much do you want?” he asked, still not looking at the woman.  
“Pardon?”  
“If this is extortion, I’d like to get the business out of the way as soon as I can. I don’t need a scandal at the present time, Mademoiselle, I’m sure you understand. How much do you need for your daughter?”  
“I don’t want money, Monsieur.” He looked up at her, finally, an eyebrow cocked in disbelief. “I just need you to meet her.”  
“And pray tell,” he began, crossing his arms, “why now?”  
“She is beginning to ask questions about where her father is. Far be it for me to deny her the right to know both of her parents. And I am … sorry I kept her from you.”  
“Mm.”  
“I did try to get a letter through to you, soon before she was born. I believe the message didn’t make it to your hands. Please, Monsieur, it’s not for my sake. It’s for my little girl. She is very well-behaved, I assure you. No trouble at all. Her name is Persephone Octavia.”

Andre had leaned back, listening with slight intrigue to this sob story. She was, at the very least, selling it better than La Carlotta.

“Persephone,” he repeated flatly. “And if I came to dinner, would I be able to corroborate that this child is mine?”  
“No doubt, Monsieur,” she said. “She has your eyes. Your face.”  
“Mm.”

He looked around the office, once again feeling unable to hold her gaze. He started to stand, and urged her to follow him as he walked past her chair.

“Well, I shall take you up on it,” he beamed, leading her out of the office and toward the opera’s main entrance. “Shall we say, you meet me here tomorrow evening at quarter to five, and we dine at your house?”  
“Well I believe I –”  
“Lovely.”

And her bewildered expression was barred from view by a magnificently decorated wooden door. His façade dropped, as did the knot in his stomach.  
That was quite enough.  
Quickly he found Richard, still in sitting front of the proscenium, his gaze tearing from the ballet girls to Andre, now pale as a ghost and resting a hand on his unsettled stomach.

“That didn’t take long. What did she say?”

Steadying his breath, Andre let out a nervous puff of air.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Firmin. I’m afraid I must take the rest of the day off.”  
“What did she say?” Firmin persisted. “God, Andre, you’re as pale as death itself.”

He should know. They had stared it in the face not too long ago.

“Apparently I’m expecting.”


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner ensues, much to Andre's dismay. Persephone is a very cute child.

Perhaps it was a little uncouth to dismiss the managerial businesses to Mme. Giry for the day, but Firmin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Andre so … unnerved. Twenty-eight years of partnership left a good deal of time for Firmin to pick up on Andre’s little nervous tics and how to gauge his expressions.  
Andre was downright _furious._ They’d retreated to his home and Firmin sipped his brandy, watching Andre pace around the study in furiously tight circles.

“So this woman claims you sired her daughter.”  
“It’s not possible, Richard, it’s …” He fumbled for words, leaving Firmin a little surprised by the use of his Christian name. “It’s just not _possible!”_  
“Well … it could be.”

The look Andre gave him could have curdled milk.

“Let’s face it, Andre; you were quite a playboy back then. And you know some of those girls would have done anything for your money. If I’m being honest, I’m surprised this is happening now and not when the woman first discovered she was expecting.”  
“That doesn’t matter,” he dismissed. “This woman is lying. It’s not possible!”  
“How is it not possible?” Firmin asked. “You mean you’ve no recollection of this woman?”  
“I have … and we did … but –”  
“Did you keep protection with you?”  
“I … did not,” he confessed, stopping his pacing for only a second before continuing with renewed vigor. “It was a New Year party! I _planned_ it! How was I supposed to remember to bring a contraceptive when there was so much else going on? We were dealing with a _ghost_ back then!”  
“How old is the child? That party was a number of years ago … _six_ years.”  
“… She’s six years old.”

Firmin nodded slowly, only the tiniest bit of amusement trying to override his shock.

“So you _did_ sleep with this woman,” he confirmed, getting up for another glass. “You did _not_ cover yourself. She is claiming to have become pregnant, by you, _six years ago,_ and you are denying the very possibility of this six-year-old child. Why?”

He passed the drink to Andre, who had stopped to glower with utmost ire. Firmin tried hard not to smile before going to sit back down. The drink sloshed from Andre’s glass as he anxiously waved his arms.

“Men our age can’t have children! We’re just too old!”  
“It’s less likely, Andre, but it can still happen. That composer who lives not far from here, the Boulanger fellow? He’s nearly eighty and just had his first child. I read about it in the paper.”  
“Oh, god,” Andre muttered, bringing his hand to his head.  
“You said the woman also wanted no money from you?”  
“She said she did not need it. She asked for me to come see the girl.”  
“Are you going to?”  
“God, no!”

It was Firmin’s turn to glower. He stopped himself from taking a drink to look up at Andre with unmasked disapproval.

“Why ever not?”  
“Because I don’t believe her! I don’t want to believe her!”  
“Oh, god’s sake, Andre,” Firmin chided. “What reason is there to suspect her of malicious intent? And don’t say it’s not possible again, or I will thrash you.”  
“I’m … too old for this, Richard,” he said earnestly. A startling realization came to Firmin of just how tired his associate looked. “Too old to be chasing around a toddler.”  
“Six is hardly a toddler, Gilles.”  
“Chasing ghosts and divas and lumbering around scrap yards has aged us considerably.”

Firmin raised a brow.

“Might I take some offense to that statement?” he asked. “Speak only on your behalf, Andre.”  
“But you agree that I’m too old and frail to be raising a young child, yes?”  
“Forgive me for misunderstanding, but the woman didn’t seem to ask you to do the raising. If she’s not extorting you, I dare say she’s well off without you. Come, Andre, the child only wants to meet you. You should be a little proud that someone of importance is beckoning for your attention, and not asking for your fortune.”

Several minutes passed in silence. Andre continued pacing, although his angry strides fell to a slower saunter as he resigned himself to the possibility of this supposed child being real. Firmin watched with interest as his friend allowed the realization to sink in.

“It’s ludicrous. What is the proper protocol for what to do with a woman you didn’t intend to get pregnant?”

Firmin looked at the swirl of his drink as he sloshed it around in the glass.

“Well, I married her,” he conceded. “Did she tell you the girl’s name?”  
“Penelope.” Andre shut his eyes, thinking again. “No, no … Persephone.”

Firmin nodded, a soft “Ah” escaping him as he contemplated whether the name was pretty or just odd.

“You should go,” Firmin continued.  
“Go where?”  
“To meet her, obviously.”

Andre put his glass on a nearby table and looked at Firmin as though he’d just declared himself to be a rabbit.

“I would _like_ you to go,” Firmin pressed.  
“What, so the press can have a field day? ‘Populaire Manager Meets Wedlock Daughter’? Fathering is your area of expertise, Firmin.”  
“Surprising, I know,” he considered, taking another drink. “Wasn’t it me who always opposed having children and you who wanted many of them?”  
“That was long ago,” Andre snapped, stopping his pace with a final huff. Firmin stood up and approached his troubled friend. “When I was more agile and able to run after them.”  
“Be thankful it’s not a boy then,” Firmin quipped. Andre looked up at him again, a stern glare steeling up at Firmin as his face reddened. The taller man set his glass down and put his hands consolingly on Andre’s shoulders. “Dearest Andre, what are you to fear in a little girl that you didn’t fear in a supposed ghost? Is it the possibility of not just this one being real, but of the many women that may approach you claiming the same?”  
“We ... cannot afford a scandal on the cusp of a reopening.”  
“I believe feigning a good relationship with the woman and her child may keep her from going to the press … not that I believe she would, though. If anybody asks, she is an ex-wife from a sticky divorce you don’t wish to discuss.”

Andre’s head fell to his chest for a moment, before rising again. Firmin’s thumbs brushed soothingly over his shoulders.

“I and Alice will accompany you to dinner if you think it may make it easier. But, for the child, and for keeping our reputation tidy, you will go.”  
“Why would you bring Alice? And what do you care of the child?”

He’d only met and looked after the girl a handful of times in her ten years of life. There had been a short interlude of time after her mother’s death where Andre more of less moved in to help them until Firmin could sort himself out. For all of his man-about-town business with keeping their names in the press, Firmin was ridiculously private concerning his only child.

“I entertain the notion that fatherhood can be a joy – for both the father _and_ child.”

Andre rolled his eyes as Firmin removed his hands. Since when was Richard Firmin the pinnacle of saccharine sentimentality?

“You’ve told me once or twice that Alice puts the grey hairs on your head.”  
“A little grey never hurt anybody,” Firmin said, grabbing his coat from the rack.  
“You’re all grey.”

It was Firmin’s turn to roll his eyes.

“As for Alice joining us …” A sly smile crossed his lips as he buttoned up. “I believe your little friend could use a playmate closer to her age.”  
“I’m – not – going.”  
“You will go, even if I have to wash and clothe you and drag you to the woman’s house myself.”

And with that, Firmin left Andre in his brooding stupor, standing in the middle of his home study with a great deal of brandy pooled beneath his shoes.  
  
Ω  
  
Firmin checked his pocket watch for what was perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes, humming a little tune as he did so. To his far left, Alice sat at the top of the stone steps leading to the opera house, straining to read her book in the dimming fall light. Directly in front of him, Andre fiddled with the cuffs of his suit, trying to distract himself from what was no doubt going to be a sordid affair on his end.

“Nervous?” Firmin said, not attempting to hide his amusement.  
“Please, Firmin,” Andre sighed. “Do not talk to me.”  
“It’s six o’clock,” he observed. “They were due to arrive at a quarter to five and it’s six o’clock.”  
“Then let’s leave.”

Firmin wrapped a firm hand around Andre’s arm before he could get two steps in.

“Nervous.”

It was a statement rather than a question now. They locked eyes.

“Very nervous,” Andre conceded.  
“Don’t be. Just take a breath.”

Distantly, they heard hooves. Turning, Firmin saw a carriage vastly approaching.

“Alice!” he called. “Come over.”

The trio gathered as the carriage came to a gradual halt in front of them. The familiar face of Mme. Bay greeted the two men as she opened the door and stepped out, gesturing for them to climb in. Alice did a polite curtsey before climbing in ahead of them.  
Andre very nearly stopped dead as he climbed in and saw the pink dressings of a little girl staring out the window. Her feet couldn’t even reach the floor; rather, her legs stuck out at an odd angle. The ivory color of her skin was accentuated by the inky blackness of her hair. Once the carriage door was shut, she looked over the new passengers one by one. Her eyes landed on Andre.  
Her large hazel eyes bore into his large hazel eyes.  
It was a dead giveaway.  
He was ready to bolt.

“Mon amour, it’s impolite to stare.”

The girl shared a look with Natalia, who swatted her with her fan in discouragement.

“Sorry, Mama. I’m sorry, Monsieur.”

Andre nodded stiffly, not daring himself to speak. He wasn’t sure if he could control his voice in that moment. A sweat crept onto his collar. The smug smile he felt burning into the side of his skull from Firmin did not help him. The carriage was suffocating.

“I’ve seen you before, Mademoiselle,” Alice spoke. “Do you work at the Opera Magnifique?”  
“I do,” Natalia smiled. “I’ve been a dancer there for a number of years, and trained as a ballerina in my youth.”  
“I’ve always wanted to study dance. I’d love to be on stage. Papa says I sing like a bird but I have two left feet.”

Half-listening to the conversation, Andre felt Firmin’s body stiffen beside him. Had his own mind not been screaming, he may have found it funny.

“My Percy’s been studying at our opera house since her fourth birthday. Perhaps we could persuade your father to enroll you in one of our theatres.”  
“It can be discussed,” Firmin said laboriously. Andre looked over briefly to see Alice wrap her arm longingly around her father’s and press her head against his shoulder. So it was decided then.

Once again, he locked eyes – briefly – with the girl in the opposite corner of the small carriage.  
No ghost had ever made him feel so fearful that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  
The rest of the ride passed by in amiable, if not tense silence. Once Andre tore his eyes from Persephone, he looked at Firmin with something akin to resentment and, had Firmin not known better … worry?  
The carriage came to a grinding halt and Natalia opened the door. They were in front of a small stone cottage with a turquoise door and window shutters, the entire house alight with a wisteria tree in the yard, demanding attention like a beautiful lilac globe.  
Andre nearly stepped out, had the girl not rushed to hop out in front of him, making his heart beat loudly in his ears. Firmin had to give him a gentle shove to continue moving.  
The girl followed dutifully behind her mother, not looking back at Andre and the company in tow. Perhaps in her young mind, it was not as big of a deal to her as it was to him.  
He hoped. Otherwise, it would turn out to be a most awkward evening.  
The living room seemed more muted than the outside. For a dancer’s salary, it did not show. Persephone climbed into the single armchair next to a little red couch. In the farthest right corner of the room were a nearly bare bookshelf and a silver-framed mirror. A single wooden box which bore the name PERSEPHONE BAY in chipping, pale pink letters sat beneath an old tea table.  
He barely registered that the others had come in and were talking amiably on their way to the couch.

“Percy, mon amour,” Natalia said, “show Alice to your room. Get acquainted with her.”  
“Yes, Mama.”

The girl hopped out of the chair and knelt to pull out the wooden box. From inside, she grabbed a box of dominoes and a tattered book, which Andre realized on closer inspection, was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  
Andre sat carefully in the now empty chair once the young ones were gone. With some distaste, he noticed that Firmin and Natalia seemed to have gotten along swimmingly.

“So the girl’s birthday just passed, as I correct?” Firmin asked, crossing one leg over the other.  
“Yes, two weeks ago, Monsieur.”

Firmin shared a glance with Andre, whose chin was resting in his hand. They exchanged smiles. Andre’s did not reach his eyes, however.

“We’ll have to get her a present then,” Firmin said. “Take her out for Hallows’ Evening, perhaps, with Alice.”

A door creaked open in the distance and persistent footsteps grew louder. Persephone rushed into the living room and swiped two pieces of taffy from the bowl on the table. Pleasantly, she looked around at each of the room’s occupants and waved before rushing off again.  
Firmin smiled at Natalia as if he was the proud father.

“She has your eyes, Andre,” he said earnestly.  
“Mm.”

A minute passed by in rigid silence. Firmin was perhaps waiting for Andre to say more. When that failed, Firmin crossed his arms and turned back to Natalia, shutting Andre out of the conversation until he perhaps grew up a little.

“Well. I think it would be wise to discuss what to do going forward. You say your daughter is studying at the Opera Magnifique?”  
“I think perhaps it would be wise to discuss the future when Monsieur Andre and Persephone become … well, more acquainted.”

Andre considered this. The woman was actually starting to make sense. Suppose the meeting went terribly wrong. What would a child want with a gift from a father she came to realize she hated?  
“Well,” Firmin persisted. “If all goes well tonight, it would be of service in discussing in the future, perhaps a benefit deal for our separate establishments. A little tit for tat, if you don’t mind. You talk to your managers about putting up an advert for our upcoming reopening gala, and if it goes accordingly, we will print an advert in our programs for your holiday party.”  
“That is a wise business deal, Monsieur, but I myself cannot settle that agreement. If you wish, I could put you down for a meeting with my managers, but I cannot be the middle man in any business arrangements.

Andre’s brow raised in surprise. He hadn’t suspected there was an ulterior motive to the meeting, although he suspected the wheels in Firmin’s managerial mind began cranking when the woman made mention of the more successful Opera Magnifique. It had become the hotspot for theatre after the Populaire’s unfortunate crusade with the masked menace.  
Dinner went by nearly without incident, although Andre hardly had the stomach for his food, no matter how well cooked. In the midst of conversation, he would toss glances to Persephone whenever she spoke. She was seemingly enthralled by Firmin and Natalia’s friendly argument over which opera house was better.

“The Opera Magnifique is nice, but the Populaire carries the real grandeur that theatre patrons love to surround themselves with. Even the most impoverished feel like new money when they step in.”  
“Perhaps if there hadn’t been so much wealth in the opera house, you might not have lost as much money in the fire.”

Andre nearly choked on his wine at this remark.

“I remember that fire, Papa,” Alice said. “You said it was a madman, but Helene said it was a ghost.”  
“Yes,” he muttered, distracting himself with wine. “I shall have to have a talk with the maid.”  
“A ghost?” Persephone laughed. “Ghosts aren’t real!”  
“Quite right, Persephone,” Firmin nodded. “It was not a ghost. It was just a deranged man.”  
“Well it did a lot for business,” Natalia chimed in. “It’s all anybody could talk about for months at my opera house. He’s become something of a legend. Perhaps we need a ghost for business, Percy.”  
“Monsieur Andre,” Alice said, setting her fork down. “Are you well? You are quite pale.”

Firmin looked to his right as the conversation ceased. Andre was staring down at his plate of half-eaten fish and vegetables, positively grey in the face. His breathing seemed a little labored. Out of his peripheral, Firmin saw Persephone and Natalia each try to hand him a cloth napkin, but he grabbed Andre by the shoulders and hoisted him away before dinner could become an extremely unpleasant affair.  
They stood just outside the front door, Andre breathing deeply and Firmin grasping his shoulders tightly.

“What is wrong, Andre?”  
“The girl … the ghost … it’s just too much.”

Firmin dropped his arms and looked up at the night sky, their shaking breaths visible in the crisp fall air.

“Oh, Jesus _Christ._ Andre, budge up, will you? Are you that afraid of a little girl? At least this one’s not out to take your life.”  
“She’s just so … strange. I can’t fathom her existence.”  
“You’ll believe in a phantasm, but not a child? I’m quite taken with her. She’s a dear, once you take your time to talk to her.”

Andre’s eyes were burning when he looked up at Firmin, who took Andre’s face in his hands.  
“My dear, dear friend,” he said quietly. “All the girl wants is a relationship –”  
“- which I cannot provide right now!” he said, swatting Firmin’s hands away.  
“Then later, but not too late! If the heart can’t speak to you, let your mind do it instead. If we forge a good relationship with this woman and child, we can draft a very good deal with the owners of the Opera Magnifique. And you do know how much is riding on our gala going by without incident, don’t you?”

When Firmin once again brushed a hand over Andre’s face, Andre’s shoulders slumped. Whether it was exhaustion or defeat, Firmin took it to mean he won.

“I do,” Andre conceded.  
“Then after dinner, take the girl aside and just … try. You may like what you find in her. If you won’t do it for your daughter, do it for your friend.”  
  
Ω  
  
There was something intimidating in seeing those hazel eyes in that little girl’s face. She held herself well for being so young and small. Firmin, Natalia, and Alice retired to the back garden for a late night cup of tea, but Firmin insisted Andre stay in the living room with the child.  
Persephone seemed to be almost studying him. He saw it then, as she narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. Her expression mirrored his own when he was perplexed.  
It frightened him.  
Standing from her seat on the table (Natalia had warned her against it before retreating outside, but the girl did it anyway, and Andre didn’t have a voice to tell her not to), she walked over to him, and he briefly felt heady as the scent of honey and lavender drew nearer. She was less than a foot in front of him and stuck out her left hand.

“Look at my ring.”

He looked down. On the girl’s pinky finger, there was a ring, disconnected at the front. One end of it seemed to be a horse tail, while the other end of the twist of metal was a horse head.

“My mama got it for me when we vacationed in Italy,” she explained. “That was last year for Christmas. Have you ever been to Italy?”

They locked eyes. She searched through him, waiting for an answer. When he was unable to produce one, she shrugged and began skipping over to the neglected bookshelf.

“We stayed in Rome, but on Christmas Day we went to Pisa, and my mama took me to a tower that was as tall as this one, but leaning over. And then!” She began skipping again, this time around the couch and circling it to get back to his spot in the chair, all the while speaking. “On New Year’s Day, we went to ride horses. I love horses! She put me on this great brown Napoleon horse, named Lorenzo. He had a lot of flies around him, and kept stopping to eat, but he was the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen. Do you like horses?”

He watched her as she rested her hands on the armchair. She was close enough that he could see her missing teeth and every freckle that blotted her pale skin like the night sky. It was less fright that kept his eyes on her now and more … intrigue.

“My mama says I’m to meet my papa tonight. Do you think he liked me?”

He knew the emotions that swept across his face very plainly: confusion, realization, and then a stab of indignation, although for the life of him he couldn’t fathom why he would be indignant. Inexplicably, it felt like a thousand little pin pricks from within.  
Before he could even think to open his mouth, the girl was off, and he was left alone as she skipped into the back garden.  
 _She believes Firmin is her –_  
In just as much time, Persephone came back in, the skip in her step as exuberant as before. She stopped once again at the chair, resting a hand on the armrest.

“I’ve been told that _you’re_ the papa I was expecting.”

She smiled at him with a gentle, intriguing smile that he was unable to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, I forgot to mention this is a rewrite of a story I did a few years ago on Wattpad. Except this time it's semi-legible.
> 
> Something in my subconscious envisions Alice and Persephone as Louisa and Marta Von Trapp from the Sound of Music. Don't ask me why. I don't have a specific reason beyond they're both pretty.
> 
> I'm doing a spammy spam tonight because I have a crapload of chapters written up.


	3. Hallows' Eve

If Firmin had a right mind, he would pull the gala date to an earlier slot. Andre sat at his desk, perusing their bills with no small hint of incredulity. How was their bill already over €500 when they had only just installed electric lights around the stage? They hadn’t even opened the house to the public yet! They hadn’t the money to pay for that.  
Andre sat back in his chair, running a hand over his reddened face. If Firmin continued to insist that the gala be a week before Christmas, they would be ruined again.  
As if on cue, the office door burst open. In strode Firmin, and behind him … a plague doctor?  
Yellow strips of hair peeked out from under the mask. The figure waved at him as though this was an everyday occurrence.  
  
 _Alice_ , he realized. _Hallows’ Evening._  
  
He also realized then that Firmin carried with him a large box, which he set on the desk atop the pile of bills.  
  
“I need to speak with you about the gala,” Andre said. Firmin made a soft “Hmm” noise to continue as he undid the latches for the box. Andre stood up and carefully pulled the bills out, perusing them once again with a faint head.  
“These bills are outrageous, Firmin. We haven’t even opened yet and we’re owing thousands back to the bank! What have we been spending our money on?”  
“Well, when are they due?”  
“The electric on the third – that one cannot be ignored; we need those lights for the opening. And then the bill for the hundred yards of fabric is due next Friday.”  
“Send that bill to Miss Giry, would you?”  
“Nevertheless, we still have to pay the electricians, and … what is that?”  
  
In each of Firmin’s arms, he held a masque. One of them, a bronzed wolf, he set down on the desk in front of Andre, while he fastened the other – a red fox with gold trimmings along the edges – around his head.  
  
“What on earth is that, Firmin?”  
“Did you forget we’ve been invited to the Magnifique Masquerade Ball?”  
  
Andre let out a dismayed sigh, once again letting the bills rest on the edge of the desk.  
  
“I had hoped you would’ve taken my silence on the issue for disapproval,” he noted. “When was the last time we went to a ball? We have more important things to be focusing on.”  
“Ah, but that’s why we’re going, dear Andre,” Firmin countered. Andre was not pleased with how giddy his voice sounded. “So our children can mingle, and so we can become acquainted with the higher ups, who may want to help us with our financial debts, if we play our cards right.”  
“You have so much faith that this plan of yours will work, I dare say you should go talk to them on your own.”  
“I think not. You and that girl are our ace in the hole toward a good business deal. They’ll hardly be able to deny partnering with the entrepreneur father of one of their young dancers.”  
  
Sitting back down, Andre stared vacantly at Alice, who had taken her mask off and was staring at a rich landscape painting on the left wall. Innocuously, she turned to look at him and her father.  
  
“I … don’t know that I’m ready for the public to know yet, Richard,” he said quietly.  
“They don’t have to know just yet,” Firmin affirmed, and took off his mask. In an act that was as foreign as it was gentle, Firmin took both of Andre’s hands in his, and squeezed softly. Andre was surprised when the man’s voice dropped to a near pleading murmur. “It’s as much of a meeting as the previous ones we’ve weaseled our way through. This could help us. I cannot have a business meeting without you – we’ve always been a package deal. You don’t even have to stay, even if I wish you would. Just drink some sherry, smoke through a pack of cigars, laugh at their dull jokes, and charm them by talking about how much you love the little girl and how we could form an alliance to benefit her musical education. The owners of the Magnifique are married. They’ll eat the sugar sweetness out of the palms of our hands.”  
  
Retracting his hands slowly, Andre reclined back in his seat, fixing Firmin with a stiff upper lip.  
  
“It’s intriguing to me. For as much as you seem to care for that girl, you certainly are not above using her for our financial gain.”  
“Saccharine sweetness sells, dear Andre. Now the carriage is waiting for us outside. You can either join Alice and me for a festive evening and make the smartest deal we’ve managed in the last seven years, or you can sit there and continue to whine about the bills.”  
  
There was a soft sigh.  
  
“Do I have to wear the ridiculous mask?”  
“Costume only, I’m afraid,” Firmin confirmed, sticking his arm out for Alice. He shut the door behind then with finality waking in its startling echo.

Ω  
“This is precisely what I meant, Andre,” Firmin said.  
  
The trio had just entered the great hall of the Magnifique, and Andre looked around in a fit of awe. The ceiling reached no less than four stories, and each banister was gleaming with real silver, accentuating the powder blue of the walls that demanded attention and regard. The ceiling was a skylight, the middle of which held a great golden chandelier, wired with the newest electric lighting.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” was all he could muster.  
“Beautiful, yes, but our Populaire has a more homely richness. I feel like a wealthy man when I’m there. Here, I just feel inferior. That’s not the experience we want for the public.”  
  
They careened around the various partygoers, surrounding them with a whirlwind of rainbow carnage. Firmin held tightly to Alice’s hand.  
  
“Tosh, Firmin – had we taken up the managerial position at the Magnifique, you’d be saying that the Populaire is an old water closet in comparison. Don’t push down the competition, dear – you’re the one who wants comradery with these people.”  
  
A silver tray appeared in front of them, piled high with dainty tea sandwiches. Graciously, Andre took one and nodded at the hostess, before doing a double take, his eyes widening.  
  
“You!”  
  
Natalia stared at him, eyes glittering in recognition as he took his mask off. Her grin spread from one ear to the other. Beneath her cap and devil horns, ringlets of brown hair were still peeking out. Behind her, dressed in a snug black ballet leotard with cat ears and drawn whiskers, was Persephone.  
  
“It’s very nice to see you!” Natalia exclaimed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up.”  
  
“Nonsense, my dear,” Firmin said, removing his mask as well. “Andre and I have always enjoyed a good party, although it’s been quite a while since we’ve found the time in our schedules for one. And dear Alice hoped she could get better familiarized with the opera house. I was hoping Persephone could show her around.”  
  
The girls rushed off and were swallowed in the sea of more vibrant color. In their wake stood the three adults.  
  
“I must get back to the party,” Natalia said. “Tonight I’m relegated to a server.”  
“I was hoping before you go, Mademoiselle, if you could lead us to your managers. I took the liberty of organizing an appointment myself.”

Ω

It had long ago been established that between the two of them, Andre was to be the talk, and Firmin the show. The hype for the storm, and the hand that pulled them away from such danger.  
This was demonstrated when they first met as young men in Versailles, where Andre placed his meagre pocket money on Firmin in a betting pool over a high-stakes game of blackjack. Having watched Firmin’s strategies for quite some time that day, he’d unsuccessfully beguiled other patrons to put their earnings on Richard in the betting pool, and the two of them left the game with two-hundred francs in each jacket pocket. It was this partnership that carried them seamlessly through twenty-eight years.  
It was this partnership that got them sitting in the Bechards’ study, laughing through cigars and glasses of cognac as the four of them blathered on about the worst of their old divas. It was a nice change of pace. The gala was fresh in their minds whenever they stepped into their own opera house, and Firmin had truthfully not seen Andre laugh or smile – genuinely smile – in … god, he didn’t know how long.  
  
“It’s been an age since I’ve been here,” Firmin said. “When our theatre was still in season, I brought my daughter here to see one of your winter shows. She was quite taken with the angel costumes. _Great Nativity of Christ,_ I think it was.”  
“We do take great pride in our wardrobe department.” Monsieur Bechard, a fat and balding man who was sweating profusely through his collar, laughed and sloshed his drink around. Firmin suspected there’d been more than a few before they stepped into the room. “Silkworm from Japan and duck feathers are exceptionally sturdy for angels.”  
“I had hoped that she could have gotten a private tour backstage after the show, but I got tied up with other obligations to my own company. I do believe she’s getting her tour now, though, from one of your dancers.”  
“Oh, which one?”  
  
Firmin looked slowly over at Andre, whose eyes had fixated on the swirl of his drink, the deep laugh having left him with the clearing of his throat.  
  
“Persephone,” he muttered, per Firmin’s earlier instruction.  
“Gilles’ daughter,” Firmin continued, his grin wide and cloying. “His pride and joy – you wouldn’t think if you looked at them separately but there is a great resemblance between them.”  
“Miss Bay’s daughter?” Mme. Bechard questioned. She was a young beauty, thin and blonde, with a rather long neck. Had Firmin not known the urgency of their meeting, he would’ve called her Madame Giraffe. “Curious, I was unaware her father was around. Neither of them speak of him as though he’s around.”  
“Yes, of course they wouldn’t,” Andre muttered, threading his fingers. “Nasty divorce.”  
“But, he is around,” Firmin chimed in, knowing very well he would not be getting much interaction from Andre. “He’s just notoriously private and protective regarding her. He’s only just agreed to her request to study dancing. I was hoping, Madame, Monsieur, while we were here … to perhaps discuss an agreement of sorts, for the girl’s future education. A father managing one theatre and a mother performing at another might put her at a rather sticky crossroads.”  
“I understand your worry for her, Monsieur, and it is admirable,” Madame Bechard began, “but I believe this is a discussion to be had with her father and mother, and Miss Bay is indisposed right now.”  
“Ah, but she sent me in her place. I’m Persephone’s godfather.”  
  
Andre looked at Firmin, brow cocked.  
  
“I don’t see the problem of having two opposing opera houses,” Monsieur Bechard said. “She could spend her younger years here and, at her own discretion, transition to the Opera Populaire. Many boys are raised in houses where their parents are teachers at rival schools.”  
“She could. However,” Firmin started, “it would be easier for her to have some harmony between her two theatrical homes. I’m afraid that the competitiveness between us after our gala opening may in time drive her away from being a dancer.”  
“I do sympathize with what you’re selling us, Richard,” Monsieur Bechard started, pouring his third glass, “but competitiveness is how the game is played. I’m afraid that we can’t change the way of our entire enterprise for the future endeavors of one little girl.”  
“Then two of them.”  
“Pardon?” the Madame said.  
“My daughter, Alice, has a diamond in her throat. She spent quite a bit of time in our opera house, learning from our sopranos. Taking away my own sentiment, she is a very promising leading lady, and … she would love to study in your opera house. If you allow me to discuss the terms of this alliance, you will have a very classically-trained singing and dancing twosome in the palm of your hand.”  
  
He knew Andre was burning a hole in his skull without even having to look at him. Firmin smiled through it.  
  
“Monsieur Papa! Monsieur Firmin, Alice saw a ghost!”  
  
An explosion of noise made all the room’s occupants jump in fright and turn to the room’s entrance, where Persephone rushed in, looking between the two gentlemen with wide eyes.  
  
“A ghost, Persephone?” the Madame said. “Don’t be silly, dear.”  
“But it was a real ghost, Madame Bechard!”  
“My dear, this is an adult discussion,” Firmin said, beginning to guide her back to the swirling mob of color and masques. “Go and find Alice and go play. Your father and I will be out shortly.”  
“It was real, Monsieur!” she insisted, turning back to him. “We were running in the aisles and we saw a man in the orchestra pit – half of his face was gone and he knew her name! He said, ‘Alice Firmin, leave my opera house’!”  
  
A very deep feeling of unpleasantness seeded itself as a knot in Firmin’s gut. He turned back to Andre, whose face had grown pale. If this was some sort of Hallows’ Evening joke, it wasn’t in the least bit amusing, and very damned disrespectful to play on a couple of children.  
He grabbed Persephone’s arms.  
  
“Go and find Alice, and then your mother. No more playing in the auditorium, understand?”  
“Yes, Monsieur!”  
  
He shut the door behind her, striding to his seat with a cooled laugh.  
  
“Ah, children.”  
“A ghost,” the Madame continued. “Didn’t you yourself have some trouble with a rather mischievous spirit in your opera house some years ago?”  
“Well … so they say.”  
“It was all anybody could talk about for a year afterward. Had the theatre not burned down, that ghost could have given you a run for your money.”  
“Yes,” Firmin said. “Now – the deal.”  
Ω  
Firmin left the opera house with a particularly smug grin. It seems after six years, his skill at getting what he wanted singlehandedly was second to none. In three weeks’ time, posters for the Opera Populaire’s reopening gala’s production of The Barber of Seville would be plastered outside the Opera Magnifique and every higher-up establishment within a ten-mile radius.  
Andre was insidiously quiet throughout much of the meeting and afterward, he backed himself into a corner of the carriage and stared out the window. The color had not returned to his face. Through Alice’s rambling (“I honestly did see a ghost, Papa! He said my name and his face was red!”), Firmin stared at his friend with some trepidation, as if Andre himself had seen the ghost.  
When the carriage grinded to a halt outside of Andre’s house, Firmin asked the driver to wait and followed Andre up to the door. Grabbing him by the arm, Firmin turned his friend around.  
  
“You know what I really think of that ghost talk,” he murmured. “It’s just hogwash, Andre. I only kept at it to get the deal through. The girls – they were just playing –”  
“She called me papa,” Andre said softly, not looking at his friend.  
“What? Oh, Persephone? Yes, she did, didn’t she?”  
“She … she called me papa.”  
“Are you alright, Andre?”  
“I’m … not sure.” He turned to the door, fumbling with the set of keys he produced from his pocket. “I need to go lie down.”  
“Yes, go lie down and rest.”  
  
 _And take the week off until your head is on straight again.  
_  
He waited until the front door closed to return to the carriage, where Alice was staring out the window at the narrow cobblestone street. She, too, had been exceedingly quiet since they left the party, chattering on in random increments before being cowed into silence by fear. Several minutes of silence permeated the air, though the subject at hand needn’t be said for them to have to share a knowing look.  
  
“So you saw a ghost, did you?” Firmin asked, somewhat amused.  
“It’s true!” she countered, fixing him with an icy glare akin to her mother. “Persephone and I were playing in the auditorium when a voice called out my name and told me to leave.”  
“Dearest, could it not have been a member of the Populaire playing a cruel joke on you?”  
“Papa, how many people from the Populaire have half of their face missing? The right half of him was entirely red, and his eyelid hanged. He was truly frightening.”  
“I’m sure.”  
“You’re not sure,” she shot back, and he was surprised at the severity of her tone. “This could have been the ghost from the Populaire! How else would he know my name?”  
  
The rest of the night saw Alice following him around the house like a shadow, only leaving him alone so she could have her bath. Halfway through his sleep, he felt the right half of the mattress being pressed down, and a pair of small arms wrapped pleadingly around his neck, wet hair dampening the shoulder of his night shirt.  
  
He would have to have a rather severe talk with all the male workers of the Populaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it an opera ghost? Is it just someone playing a joke? You tell me.
> 
> No cap, I'm doing a copy-paste of this story and almost posted the entire thing in the chapter summary.


	4. The Napoleon Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Persephone gets some much-needed alone time with her father, whether or not he wants the same.

“From the beginning of the aria, if you please.”  
  
Perhaps Andre gave La Carlotta too much grief. Her voice for the operatic style wasn’t necessarily awful. Certainly the woman did not rise to the top of the theatrical ladder and stay perched there with reliance on her charming personality.  
Rather, her voice was incapable of accommodating for soft arias.  
The constant bearing down on higher notes was something nobody could ever fully get through to her that it was rather unnecessary.  
But, as Firmin slyly placed a pair of ear plugs in Andre’s lap whilst they sat in a farther row, he conceded that whether he wanted her or not, the gala would not be successful without La Carlotta. Aside from a certain Christine de Changy, no other soprano in the whole of France carried the same star power.  
She did seem, though, to have become a bit more subdued since the death of her portly Italian lover. She demanded less now, did not flare up quite as fast if a costume was unfinished.  
Evidently being a childless widow by the age of 40 made her humble. At least a little.  
That did not account for the fact that the ear plugs were very necessary. She still sang as though she needed to escape from a fragile glass box.  
  
“Did she learn how to sing _here?_ ” Alice asked her father. “Will I learn like that?”  
“No, dear, she’s from Spain. Had she been housed here, her accent would not be as heavy. I’ve met more than one Spanish woman who talks with as much boldness in everyday conversation.”  
“Richard,” Andre said softly yet playfully. “That’s quite rude.”  
  
The men chuckled softly. Alice and Persephone, defenseless, held their hands over their ears.  
At least the navy blue dress was very pretty.  
  
“Monsieur Papa, I thought Monsieur Firmin said we were to go holiday shopping.”  
  
The word still hit a visceral nerve in Andre. He couldn’t decipher the emotions that washed over him when she said it.  
  
“We are, darling,” Firmin said quickly, reaching out for her. It was quite a strange sight for Andre to witness – his dearest friend warming up to this wraithlike child. “But first we must run through the show. The gala is next week and we need to make sure it goes accordingly. We want everything to be perfect, don’t we?”  
“Mama told me to tell you to buy fireproof curtains. She says you’ll need them.”  
Ω  
“Are you afraid of me?”  
  
Andre was unable to pinpoint what exactly he found so unsettling about her. She did not look at him in anguish or fear. Instead she looked at him curiously, as she’d done on their first meeting. Perhaps it was that she still seemed so out of his realm of comprehension – as probable to him as a fairy, or a specter. He’d had a run-in with such a spirit before, and ended in disaster.  
  
“I’ve never had anybody be scared of me before,” she continued. There was a smirk on her lips that resembled her mother all too well. “It’s okay if you are. You’re very nice, even if you can’t speak to me. I don’t mind.”  
  
They had retired to a backstage makeup room, where Firmin had ordered Persephone to stay put and Andre to keep an eye on her to prevent wandering.  
She skipped about the empty room, running her hand over the fine satin costumes strewn about.  
  
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she declared proudly. “Except for snakes. When Mama took me riding on the Napoleon horse in Italy, a snake jumped out and tried to bite its leg. It was a great big green grass snake.”  
  
Persephone stuck her arms out wide to demonstrate for him.  
There was a moment of stillness, before he said quietly, “A Neapolitan horse.”  
Her eyes gleamed in surprise.  
  
“Pardon?”  
“You rode a Neapolitan horse.”  
“Oh,” she nodded. “So you can talk to me?”  
  
He nodded tightly, curtly.  
  
“Are you still afraid of me?”  
“No,” he said stiffly. “Intimidated.”  
“Intimated?”  
“Intimidated,” he corrected.  
“Is there a difference?” Persephone asked, curiosity evident in every high-pitched note as she sat on the small rickety footstool in front of him.  
“Intimidated is daunted … overwhelmed. Intimated is feeling guilty.”  
“Hmm.” She looked down at the hem of her dress to pick at a loose thread. Then she looked up at him again, eyes once again glimmering with interest. “Do you feel intimate and guilty for not talking to me?”  
“Not the same things,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms. “Intimidated is the word you’re looking for. Intimate is … you’ll learn of it later in life. And no I don’t, it’s just a predisposition.”  
  
Her head tilted in wonderment, eyes narrowing at him.  
  
“A tendency,” he explained. “An impulse.”  
“The same way it’s a pre … position for me to call you ‘Papa’?”  
“No, it isn’t. You were taught that. Predisposition does not require thought.”  
“So it’s when I go to the doctor and he bangs on my knee, and my leg jerks forward?”  
“Technically speaking, yes.” Inexplicably, he began to draw himself to her, to crawl out of his chair and kneel in front of her. It felt … impulsive. “That would be a nerve impulse reaction.”  
“Interesting.” Biting her lip, her eyes bore into his as they’d done in the carriage two months previously. “Why is it a Napleton horse and not a Napoleon horse?”  
“Neapolitan horse,” he corrected. “Because it’s from the city of Naples, I assume. Napoleon was a French military leader.”  
She, too, crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, as if to understand.  
“Did you ever meet Napoleon?”  
“No,” he said flatly. “He died before I was born.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry.”  
  
His mouth involuntarily twitched into a smile, which he ducked his head to hide, and the softest chuckle had to be swallowed down.  
  
“May I ask a personal question?”  
  
He looked up at her, his smile fading with the swipe of his hand.  
  
“How old are you? I’m six years old, and Mama is forty.”  
Sheepishly, he admitted, “Fifty-three.”  
  
Oddly, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. He noticed her lips moving in a silent mutter. When she looked at him again, a black brow was pushed down.  
  
“You’re much older than my friends’ papas.”  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
  
He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to elaborate. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment accident’ felt rude, and ‘Your mother looked nice and there wasn’t enough room in the closet for me to pull away’ was too much honesty than she probably needed.  
He settled for, “Sometimes things happen.”  
Persephone nodded slowly, seemingly resigned to that answer.  
  
“You should talk more,” she said suddenly, resting her chin on her balled up fists. “I like your voice.”  
  
He couldn’t stop his laugh this time. There were perhaps a few people who would disagree with this sentiment.  
  
“Why do you enjoy it?”  
“I’m not sure; I just like it.” She hesitated again. He watched her mouth slowly open as she contemplated her next thought. “May I ask another question?”  
“I suppose?”  
“… Are you married?”  
Taken aback, he asked, “Why would you believe that?”  
“Well …” She giggled. “You and Monsieur Firmin wear those rings. And you’re always together and he calls you ‘dear’.”  
In confusion, he looked down at his hands. There were three rings: a ruby and silver band adorning his right pinky finger, a brilliant blue cocktail ring on his left index finger, and a silver band on his left ring finger. Fashion statements. Not marriage –  
“Oh!” he exclaimed, the meaning hitting him like a brick. So surprising this implication was, he couldn’t even laugh about it. “No, no – no, they’re just for show.”  
“But are you married?”  
“No – no, most certainly not.”  
“Well what about the way you two look at each other? You look happier when you’re around him.”  
“It would be prudent not to broach that subject,” he said quickly, feeling a startling palpitation in his heart. “It is quite presumptuous to pry into somebody’s private relationships when you scarcely know them.”  
“Oh,” she said softly, and despite his indignation, a peculiar sting arose in his chest when he watched her face fall in dismay. “I’m sorry.”  
  
There was another beat of silence, and then she looked at him again.  
  
“Would you like to get to know me?”  
“I’m … sure it will happen, in due time.”  
“It’s alright if you don’t. But I would like to get to know you. All my friends are close with their papas.”  
  
The irritation dissipated. He recognized those feelings now – some of the most extreme he’d ever felt. That word caused a tremble of exhilaration, and the warmth of newfound familiarity.  
And then his scattered thoughts merged into one another in that very instant.  
Something he wanted as a young man, something that seemed more and more inaccessible as his autumn years loomed large over his aspiration to settle down and Firmin dragged him from one city to the next. That something was sitting right in front of him, bearing into his very soul with his own eyes and a childlike smile, reserved in that moment for him, and only him.  
Were his reservations over growing close to the child perhaps warning him against getting too comfortable? Last time he and Firmin found themselves in blessed fortune, they flew too close to the sun, and ended up in a burning heap. Would the opera ghost strike the child down, just out of pure hatred for Andre?  
He couldn’t think of this girl in the same vein as such a fiend. He couldn’t bear to think of her in such pain, handed over to the devil himself.  
And what a fiend he himself had been – what a scoundrel! To deny the girl was to deny heaven in the flesh. To deny a hazel-eyed, black-haired, freckled angel.  
  
“I would very much like that,” he concurred. For a moment, his hand raised, and he hesitated on whether to take her hands into his own. Thinking on it, he put them down. That was too much, too soon. Maybe next time.  
  
Firmin and Alice appeared in the room some time later, the former carrying with him a new copy of A Christmas Carol. Upon receiving the gift, Persephone threw her small arms around Firmin’s waist, casting a very curious look from Andre, who was standing up from the floor.  
Was that jealousy that he recognized in the old man? Surely not. He never displayed such disapproval before when the girl approached Firmin alone to talk.  
It was certainly curious to Firmin, though, that Andre seemed to look at the girl with such fondness when she approached him to show him the book. They’d scarcely been gone for an hour.  
He was not the only one surprised by this. Upon stopping at Miss Bay’s cottage, Andre made his way out of the carriage before Firmin, placing himself as a sort of blockade between Firmin and the girl. Natalia’s brows rose in surprise when Andre extended a personal invitation to box seven for the gala, but she accepted without much reservation.  
Firmin nearly teased him on the ride home (“In love, are you?”), but thought better of it. The look of complete contentment curling at the corners of Andre’s mouth was too precious to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this was one of my favorites to write. I'm all about the sugary sweetness.


	5. The Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The much-anticipated reopening of the Opera Populaire. Andre has his mind on only two people.

The familiar buzz of a socialite crowd was as bolstering and inviting to Firmin as sinking into a hot bath. It had been too long. Since the fire, he’d had dreams of a reopening that he was sure would never see the light of day.  
Until he discovered that Monsieur Lefevre had taken the liberty of taking out an insurance claim on the opera house, in the event of devastation from the opera house’s resident poltergeist.  
Certainly Andre and Alice seemed to be enjoying themselves. Shake hands with him, charm her, ask about that very expensive dress, pose for the cameras, yes, we would love some more champagne – no, none for the girl.  
He’d seriously debated whether to bring her along. The cameras being shoved in her face was something he’d have liked to avoid, and his anxieties about a certain nuisance causing harm to the patrons heightened tenfold when his own child was thrown into the mix.  
But, with those ridiculously charming green eyes, she fluttered her lashes and reminded him of the times he’d promised to take her to the Populaire to see a show when she was only four. No man or specter or devil could sway her want to go. He’d promised her time and again that he would bring her to a show once the sordid opera ghost was dealt with. The tears of disappointment on her cherubic face when she was told of the fire were as terrible to him as the fire swallowing him whole.  
He would crash a thousand chandeliers before he broke her heart again.  
Swallowing his pride, he smiled and pulled her close for the camera in front of the opera house. She’d gotten an especially nice sapphire dress just for the occasion, and twisted her hair into braided buns. It seemed to him, then, that singing was not the only thing the girl had learned from his lead sopranos.  
It hadn’t occurred to him in his wildest daydreams that his daughter might one day be conversing and laughing with Gustaf VI, Sweden’s young prince in the making.  
This was the life he wanted for her. For himself, for Andre, for his family.  
Ω  
“Andre, we still have ten minutes.”  
“Where are they? I did give Natalia the tickets, yes?”  
“I saw you give them to her, now stop fussing.”  
It was Andre’s fourth champagne flute for the night, and Firmin suspected a fifth was coming along. The elder man had more to worry about tonight with the gala than Firmin did.  
“There is quite a heavy crowd still trying to find seats,” Firmin said, trying his best to sound reassuring. “They could be trying to make their way to the box.”  
Firmin had another worry, and he couldn’t tell if it had manifested in Andre’s mind as well and contributed to his drinking. The last time they’d sat in this very box, there was a moment between them.

_A moment where, in the jaws of imminent danger, watching their lead soprano give herself over to the devil so willingly, so ardently, Andre gripped Firmin’s wrist._   
_They shared a look, suddenly unable to focus on the opera unfurling below them; emotions that need not be spoken to be recognized – confusion, worry, anticipation, reassurance._   
_Whatever he was reassuring them of that night, he wasn’t clear – neither with Andre or himself._   
_Firmin pried Andre’s hand off and taken it into his own, softly, out of view of the rest of the hypercritical world. He brushed a thumb soothingly over Andre’s outer palm. Gave it a gentle grip to calm him. They exchanged another look, and –_   
_Ruin._

“Perhaps we should stall for time,” Andre said, standing for the fifth glass as Firmin predicted. “Just for a few minutes.”  
Firmin’s eyes widened. He turned to his friend as if he’d spilled the champagne all over the rug.  
“Are you _mad?”_  
“I want them here, Firmin! I’ll go out in the streets and get them myself if I have to!”  
“Andre, this is our opening night gala. We’ve been inaccessible to the public for six years. If you think I’m going to stall the crowd for any reason, you’ve lost your mind. It’s a full house!”  
Firmin got up from his seat and stepped close to his glowering companion. From how deep they were in the box, only somebody with the most supreme eyesight could spot the affection that radiated outward when Firmin took Andre’s face in his hands.  
“Is this opening important to you as well, dear friend?”  
“It is … but –”  
“They will get here when they get here.” His tone was soft, pleading. “Please calm down. Enjoy yourself the way we’ve been dreaming of for the past year.”  
Andre didn’t object to the soft kiss on the temple. Instinctively, it felt right, and he knew Firmin had his best intentions at heart. He felt it would be rude to shove his friend away, even if such tenderness was unbecoming of them.  
The overture swelled to a crescendo, enveloping the opera house in a wave of warm applause and cheers. It became lost on Andre, whose blood was rushing in his ears like the call of the ocean. Everything was riding on this night. Everything had to be perfect.  
But where were they? Five minutes late!  
His suspicion was running wild. Perhaps they were just running late in the mass of socialites still clamoring in during the overture. They could have just abandoned their box ticket and settled for ground floor seating, which seemed unfathomable to Andre, but just as well did his daughter’s very existence.  
The box was still empty when the curtain rose. Could it be that they forgot it was tonight, and they’d show up tomorrow evening to watch an empty theatre? Or could it be that their carriage driver was lost, unable to find his way to the highest building this side of France?  
Could it be that they just didn’t care?  
A pang of worry shot through him, forcing him to stand and clutch his champagne flute. Could it be that one of them was sick? His Persephone, having caught a terrible winter chill?  
This time, it was Firmin’s hand that clutched his wrist. The younger man looked up at him, his eyes flashing with a mix of concern and warning.  
“They’ll be here, Andre,” he said lowly, trying his damndest to not distract Alice from the show. She seemed enthralled with the music and not one person would ruin it for her. “Sit down.”  
Gradually he did. Firmin could see his rose-tinted face, even with the dimmed lighting.  
No more champagne for their box.  
Ω  
By twenty-five minutes, Andre had abandoned hope of the girls showing up. He’d checked his pocket watch twice a minute before he realized his problem. A stab of indignation speared through him when Firmin visibly relaxed once the pocket watch was put away.  
He could not understand where these terribly painful pangs of indignation came from. Firmin did have a good point, whether Andre was able to admit it or not.  
The indignation perhaps came from the way Firmin wrapped his arm so warmly around his daughter’s shoulders. Yes, that was it.  
Andre wanted that for himself.  
Over the crescendo of the orchestra, Andre heard a murmur beside him. Turning to his right, he saw two brilliantly familiar faces in the next box over. Taking her seat, Persephone’s face was barely visible over the banister, yet she looked over to him and waved. Her eyes brightened when they landed on him.  
The rest of the Act I ran seamlessly, the music moving as easily as water against the very air. From below, he could see the audience smiling and laughing pleasantly, and applauding when appropriate. For the first time that hour, he was able to breathe and relax, sharing a relieved smile with Firmin.  
When the curtain closed for the interval, Andre moved to try standing up. Enjoying his friend’s company, he admitted inwardly that he’d find a more pleasant experience sitting in box seven.  
His movement was blocked when Firmin stood up as well, and pulled him in for the tightest hug he’d had in several years. A breathtaking, bone-crushing hug of adoration and joy. The pat on the back affirmed this.  
“It’s marvelous, Andre!” he exclaimed, taking his time to let go. “Simply wonderful!”  
“Let’s not celebrate yet, Firmin, we’ve still an hour to get through.”  
Nevertheless, Andre smiled at his dear friend, startled to notice there were tears in the sea green ocean of his eyes. He couldn’t recall the last time he saw Firmin so glowing with pride, so ready to burst at the seams.  
Well, perhaps one other time. Alice, too, was in tears, overcome with admiration.

_“She’s beautiful, Andre.” Firmin’s hand was trembling so fiercely that Andre had to light the cigar for him. “She looks just like Loren – thank heavens.”_   
_“My dear, it looks like you haven’t slept in days.”_   
_Even in the dim lighting outside La Lune Bleu, Andre could clearly see that Firmin’s eyes were red and glossed over, his hair tousled ever so slightly so as to look haggard. The older gentleman smirked. The bundle of joy had only been born a week ago and she was already wreaking havoc on her parents._   
_“I haven’t,” he admitted after a puff. “I can’t take my eyes off her.”_   
_“And yet here we are. No baby in sight.”_   
_That wasn’t entirely true. Despite La Lune Bleu’s notoriously upscale status, somebody had the ill grace to bring their toddler along as a dinner guest, so Firmin and Andre planted themselves outside._   
_“When shall you return to work?”_   
_“When Loren is able to walk about the house and look after the baby on her own. I expect in a month or so.”_   
_Andre smirked, taking a puff from his cigar. He insisted Firmin join him for celebratory cigars and champagne to mark the new arrival. Waiting on their food, he studied the wrapper for the brand Firmin had chosen (he smoked through half the box during the grueling twenty-nine hours it took for the little one to see her way through into the chilling night air). Gold letters shimmered on the pink packaging: **C’est une fille**_   
_“A girl,” Andre mused. “I take it you’re happy?”_   
_“Incredibly.”_   
_“What’s it like then?”_   
_“Do you ask me to mean physically or emotionally?”_   
_Andre laughed as the smoke blew out._   
_“I believe, dearest, only Loren can answer the former. I was inquiring about how you’ve … felt you changed with this new little person around. It was to my recollection you were less than thrilled about her nearness.”_   
_Firmin took a particularly long drag, lost in thought. Andre could see in his eyes that he was traveling thousands of miles away from his own consciousness. The sound of the other patrons around them was white noise._   
_“I can’t describe it,” he said finally. “I love her supremely. I can’t describe it better than that. You’ll simply have to have a child for yourself.”_   
_“Well, we can only hope that never happens, Firmin.”_

“We made it!”  
To his surprise, they did indeed make it. The two pairs met in the space between their respective boxes, Firmin trailing swiftly behind his friend. Persephone, dressed in a gentle orange gown, rushed up to her father. Andre was so enchanted that it was Firmin who first noticed how particularly gaunt Natalia looked, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and pressing a hand to her cinched stomach.  
“I apologize for our lateness,” she said, feigning a confident smile. Firmin moved around her and the clamoring crowd to grab the chair from her box. “It was my fault – a bit of an upset stomach.”  
“I’d prefer you to sit, Miss Bay.”  
“I’m fine, Monsieur Firmin, thank you.”  
He seriously doubted that, but the hand on his shoulder told him not to press on it.  
The interlude ended with Andre joining box seven, both men with their respective families. Firmin’s reservations regarding Natalia’s appearance dissipated gradually as he saw the three of them sitting in a small cluster, the parents side by side with Persephone in Andre’s lap for a better vantage point of the stage.  
His own arm was enveloped by Alice who, after the particularly delightful _Una Voce Poco Fa_ that caused a standing ovation to erupt (which no doubt would stroke the signora’s ego for the next month until well into their next performance), smiled softly at her father, emerald eyes shimmering with reverence.  
“I love this theatre, Papa.”  
His free hand swirled the residue of the foamy cava around in the flute, more than a little pleased with himself.  
It was a good night, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, describing a performance that you can't see is harder than actually performing. I had no idea what I was even supposed to be describing hsnssjkg
> 
> "C'est une fille" is French for "It's a girl"


	6. An Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension boils over on Christmas as Firmin is left to speak to Natalia in private

For as slow going as Andre’s previous interest was regarding the Bay girls, he dove headfirst into the role of doting father with such ease, it seemed to border on obsession.  
Firmin found the almost overnight attitude shift to be both a little enchanting and disturbing. It was difficult to be a father from a distance, and the men had other things they needed to focus on regarding the opera house.  
Natalia’s ill appearance was nudging its way to the top of Firmin’s list whenever they ran into each other after the gala. Andre had become so fixated on all the ways his life was changing for the better that Firmin seemed to become the silent observer. Not all was well. Not even at Christmas dinner, it seemed, where the five of them sat around the table. She seemed to be engaging the conversation in a deliberate attempt to avoid the roast on her plate.  
  
“Alice, have you ever read Oliver Twist?”  
“Not that one, Miss Bay, no, though I’ve heard wonderful reviews in La Tribune. Papa wants me to study more European literature. I got the works of Victor Hugo this morning.”  
“I’ll be traveling soon. Perhaps I can lend you my Dickens collection. I’ll have to regale myself with Victor Hugo whilst I’m on the road.”  
“Traveling?” Andre asked. His interest piqued. Firmin watched his ears perk up like a hapless dog. “Might I ask where to?”  
“Oh, nowhere special.” Firmin now observed how slowly she chewed her food, drawing out the conversation. “Just meeting a friend in Dijon for a wedding.”  
“How long will you be gone this time, Mama?”  
“Persephone, do not play with your food.”  
  
From Natalia’s view, only Persephone’s head was visible over the table. Nevertheless she seemed absolutely determined to stack her plate of macaroons. Everyone else had moved on to dessert.  
Everyone, Firmin saw, except for Natalia, who suddenly smiled. Pleasantly. Falsely.  
  
“I’m not sure, mon amour, but I was hoping that in that time, perhaps you and your father could become better acquainted? You could give him a tour of the Magnifique.”  
“Quite right,” Andre agreed quickly. “Just as well, I have a marvelous collection of both Hugo and Dickens in my home. Perhaps I could relinquish a few titles to you for your travel.”  
“Perhaps.”  
Ω  
“I don’t believe I’ve ever expressed my thanks to you, Monsieur Firmin. If I have, you’ve been long overdue for another one, for all your work in helping my little girl connect with her father.”  
“Well, she’s quite the charmer. It’s hard to resist being taken with her.”  
  
Andre and the children were out and about, having hailed a carriage to his home so that they may sort through his book collection. This worked out for Firmin, who now had the woman backed into a proverbial corner. They were standing in the family room, sipping on steaming apple cider.  
  
“So you’re unsure of how long you plan on staying in Dijon?”  
“Well, I’m to arrive a few days ahead of the wedding to settle the bride into her new home. After that, I may … explore. It has been quite a long time since I had a childfree evening.”  
“And you’ve nobody else to watch the girl?”  
“If she would be too much of a handful for you, I can –”  
As Firmin began to sit, he inwardly regretted his choice of words.  
“Oh, no! No trouble at all. I only meant she may prefer a relative of whom she is more familiarized. No grandparents, aunts, cousins?”  
“None, unfortunately. When I discovered I was with child, they couldn’t bear the shame of having an unwed mother in the family. After I confessed that Monsieur Andre was the child’s father … they hounded me to pressure him into marriage. I refused, and was kicked out of my family home.”  
“That’s a shame,” he grimaced. “A _damned_ shame.”  
  
Natalia laughed softly. Firmin recognized the worry in how she sucked in a breath. When she sat down in the armchair, they seemed to both let their guards down.  
  
“Funny,” she said. “I dare say, he seems to want to marry me now.”  
“Yes.”  
  
There was no hint of humor in his tone, just as there was none in hers. Tentatively, he set his drink down and rested his elbow on his knee, leaning closer.  
  
“I shall cut the conversation short, and I need complete honesty,” he said. “Are you ill, Nat?”  
  
The pallid, colorlessness of her face morphed into a worrying grey. Her smile shrank to a soft grimace. Firmin saw the knowingness in her eyes start to form at surface level. She need not say – he knew her answer before she even opened her mouth.  
  
“I went to a doctor several months ago,” she conceded, not daring to look at him. “I had lost my appetite and was wearier than usual when I was rehearsing for our summer show. I believed I was just suffering from the sickness I’d gotten from spring allergies, or I was being overworked. I went to a doctor finally once I was unable to keep down my food, and it came back up with blood. They said it was gastric cancer.”  
  
Inwardly, the word made him wince. He had some idea of an unpleasant disease, but certainly something so dire was not at the forefront of his mind. As the full weight of the insidious word washed over him, he looked at her more intensely.  
  
“I take it that’s why you’re traveling to Dijon?” he asked softly. “What better help can you find in Dijon that you cannot find in Paris?”  
“I was recommended there by the doctor I had consulted in May. But I could not put all of my time into moving to Dijon for surgery when I also had a daughter to look after. I could not afford to move the both of us. That’s when I sought you both out.”  
  
This last phrase brought about a new question. The air stayed thick with tension and the lick of winter chill as Firmin deliberated asking it.  
  
“Had you not become ill …” He tried hard to keep the judgement out of his voice. “… Would you have kept her hidden from us forever?”  
  
It was not his intention to turn the evening into an interrogation, especially as he knew she was under too much stress already, but he felt he – and Andre, most of all – had a right to know. Truthfully, this was a conversation that Andre should be a part of, but Firmin knew more than anybody else that Andre could not handle any more shocks to the system at the present time. Telling him now would only further complicate the matter – oh Natalia, my dearest, let me go with you, I must be by your side always, Firmin can watch over the theatre and the girl, better yet, let’s bring her with us, we shall get through this as a family, oh, my beloved, my beloved.  
He would have to know eventually, after Natalia leaves. And it would have to be Firmin who tells him.  
  
“Not forever,” she brushed off, meeting his stern eye only briefly before briskly looking away again. “I was not lying when I told him that she’d been asking about him for some time. I would have … brought her to you eventually.”  
“That you discovered this in May and didn’t seek us out until October makes that hard to believe, I’m afraid. You could have saved yourself a lot of time.”  
“No.” The shift in tone surprised him enough to raise his brows. Her eyes were worryingly colorless. “I could not ruin my daughter’s holiday. I intended to stay until January, regardless of if Monsieur Andre stayed in our lives or not.”  
“Pardon me for saying so, Nat, but you could have given yourself a higher chance to spend much more holidays with your daughter had you been quicker to action.”  
  
She did not appreciate this comment. He also recognized the unwillingness to admit that he was right.  
Just knowing her parents, Firmin hoped desperately that Persephone would not grow to be so stubborn.  
  
“How long do you estimate you’ll be gone?”  
“I have no idea. I’ll have to write a letter once I’ve talked to the doctor in Dijon.”  
“Is Persephone aware?”  
  
The silence was not reassuring. Natalia brought her hand to her chin and looked out the opposite window.  
  
“I talked to her, yes. She knows I’m not going to Dijon for a wedding.”  
“But I take it she does not know it’s potentially terminal.”  
  
She turned to him swiftly, eyes ablaze.  
  
“If you want to nitpick somebody’s every move, Monsieur, I suggest you go back to the opera house and watch your ballerinas. How did you tell Alice that Madame Firmin was dying?”  
  
A deep grimace set itself like stone on his face. That question threw him off, and assaulted his senses with unpleasant memories he’d long ago pushed away, too busy to sort through them.  
  
“Well,” he sighed, “the truth was the best way to put it. I suggest you try that to start with.”  
“Tell my daughter that I’m dying, and that I lied to her to spend my time with her?”  
  
Her tone had dropped to a desperate whisper, as though meddlesome spirits surrounded them and clung to every word.  
  
“Tell her that you’re going to get the best help available to you; that you’re doing it for her, and that her father will take her in for as long as she needs it.”  
“And you’re sure that she’ll be no trouble to you? I can make arrangements elsewhere if she may get in the way of –”  
“I would make it my _business_ to see to her care,” Firmin said, rising from his seat. “Any child of Andre’s is as much my brood as Alice.”  
  
Awkwardness tugged at his chest, forcing him to look elsewhere as the woman’s eyes glossed over with tears. In an instant, she was hugging him around the middle, leaving him feeling unsure of what to do or whether or not to stop it.  
God, these people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know when the term "cancer" was coined in the medical field. I just know through my research that it's been recognized as early as 500 A.D.


	7. Wifely Duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agreeing to see to the care of Andre's daughter, Firmin finds himself with more motherly responsibilities than he'd intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little bit gay but not quite there yet. I apologize for the length of this chapter.

Whether she’d eavesdropped on a conversation or was just too perceptive for her age, Persephone was not only keenly aware of exactly why her mother was in Dijon, but also the likelihood of her mother returning home in a hearse. Firmin discovered this as he was dropping her off at the Magnifique, a week after Miss Bay’s departure. The girl began to step out of the carriage after him, but stopped most peculiarly with one foot on the ground, the other resting on the step in the carriage’s exit.  
  
“How long do you think it will be until my mama dies?”  
  
The question threw him off completely. There had been no lead up to such a conversation in the carriage. She had only just been discussing her cravings for the breakfast she’d had in Italy with her mother. What concerned him more, though, was the complete coolness with which she spoke. There was no hint of fear or sadness in her face; just dwindling curiosity. Fumbling, he reflected.  
  
“There is no guarantee that she will die, my dear.”  
“But she is sick –”  
“And going to Dijon to get better,” he said, suddenly impatient. He grabbed her around the middle and hoisted her out of the carriage. Setting her on the ground, he grasped her hand and began to walk briskly toward the theatre doors.  
“She told me to be aware that she might not get better.”  
“ _‘Might not’_ carries no finality, Sef,” he insisted. The nickname came to him after she scolded him over his use of Percy. Apparently it was a very personal name, reserved only for use by her mother. “Furthermore, it is not wise to bring such questions to the light of day. Your father still has yet to be told and I have to be the one to tell him.”  
“Why can’t I tell him?” she asked. He was pulling her along the marble steps, ignoring the glances of onlookers may not have known his exact business with the dancer’s daughter. “And why is my papa not bringing me here?”  
“Your father is difficult to digest things he doesn’t wish to hear. Thank heavens you’re not similar in that regard.”  
  
He wished to avoid the latter question. ‘He’s spending too much time on fantasies of playing house and not enough on actual work’ wasn’t the best explanation, regardless of being the most honest. Firmin agreed on accompanying Persephone to dance rehearsals so Andre could go back to worrying about the bills. Coddling La Carlotta had become a one-man job as of recent, falling with spitefulness on Firmin’s shoulders. So, too, did bringing Alice to her secondary school for girls. He was beginning to play mother to these children more than he would have preferred.  
Madame Bechard met them in front of the proscenium. A swarm of young girls, already in their tutus, were gallivanting about under the instructor’s strict direction. One girl did a forward roll that should have easily crushed her spine. Firmin winced, feeling a sympathy pain shoot through his back.  
  
“Persephone Andre,” Madame Bechard said sternly, hands on her bony hips, “it does not bode well for our star to be late to rehearsal.”  
“I should apologize on her behalf, Madame,” Firmin sighed. “I’ve been tasked with seeing that both my daughter and Monsieur Andre’s daughter make it to school on time. We will try to not make it a regular occurrence.”  
“See to it that it does not happen again.” Her tone, although softer upon explanation, was still hard enough to give him a pang of irritation. So few people were allowed to talk down to him in such a manner. “Persephone, do go and get fitted into your costume. You’ll have to stay a half-hour late to make up for lost time.”  
“Yes, Madame.”  
  
With a squeeze of his hand, she took off up the steps leading to the stage, dodging ballerinas in her haste. The woman turned back to Firmin, both of them smiling through a rather awkward stare-down.  
  
“A rumor has circulated that Persephone’s gained the title role for _Giselle.”_  
“That’s correct.”  
“Monsieur Andre will be pleased.”  
  
Her smile was coy.  
  
“Fairly soon, though, for her being so young," he observed. "Surely another older, more experienced girl would have sufficed?”  
“Persephone’s mother carries a great reputation in this opera house. It was saddening to see her go. Her wish was for her daughter to get as good of an experience as she herself had growing up under our roof.”  
  
His expression softened into a genuinely grateful smile.  
  
“I hear your daughter has gained a leading lady’s slot as well, in your opera house.”  
“Well, not a leading lady’s slot, per se. She’s Hecate in _The Scottish Play_. Only one scene.”  
“That’s still quite a lead for having never been on stage before. Nepotism, Monsieur?”  
  
Struggling for a response, he knew he face began to turn red.  
  
“Her name may carry weight from the outside looking in, but as far as my workplace is concerned, I hold no bias for her. La Carlotta is still our seat-filler. I dare say we are in short supply of those who can act. Alice isn’t yet the greatest soprano for being so young but she fits what we need as a straight performer. On that note, is it too presumptuous of me to ask whether or not Persephone’s father and mother play a role in such a small child bagging the lead?”  
“Not presumptuous, Monsieur; just … willfully ignorant. Persephone is a wonderful dancer. And I apologize for having to cut the conversation short, but I have to oversee the set painters.”  
“Of course. I’ll be back at four to pick her up.”  
“Four-thirty, Monsieur. We run a tight ship around here – she needs to be taught her dances directly on schedule.”  
  
There was such finality and forwardness in her tone that his brows raised in surprise. For such a petite, frail woman, she had an aptitude for austerity that put Madame Giry to shame.  
  
“Of course, of course. And pray tell, Madame – is this your usual bedside manner, or have I caught you on a bad day?”  
“Pardon, but I fail to catch your meaning. My dancers love me. The ones who deserve a good bedside manner, at least.”  
“And does that courtesy not extend to a child whose mother has just left her with a severe illness to be treated?”  
  
Her face soured as though she’d sucked on a lemon. Entwining his hands behind his back, Firmin smirked.  
  
“You promised your daughter over to us in the next year, Monsieur Firmin,” the woman said tightly. “It would be a pity for her time here to begin with negative feelings permeating the air between us.”  
“Yes, of course, Madame Bechard. All my apologies to you. I’ll be around at four-thirty.”  
Turning on his heel, Firmin left the theater in great strides, muttering a soft “Wow” out of Madame Giraffe’s earshot.  
Mentally he said a prayer that she would be in a better mood when he came back, and that her militant directing style did not extend to Persephone or – worse yet – Alice. Somehow he doubted she would be such an agreeable spirit with their daughters in her care.  
Ω  
“Firmin, where have you _been?”  
_  
The biting tone with which he was met by Andre did nothing to alleviate his dour mood. Firmin stopped at the door of their shared office, pausing to observe the older gentleman and Madame Giry around Andre’s desk. Taking a second to reconcile the snappy tone of voice (he’d become familiarized with it twice today, although he had no intention of getting used to it), he stepped in and nodded.  
  
“Good morning as well, Andre. I got caught up in taking the girls to school.”  
“Well, since you’ve been out, La Carlotta has refused to renew her contract with us.”  
  
Perhaps the years of pandering had finally worn him down. Or perhaps it his temper had flared with Madame Bechard, and was unable to rise back up to the surface. Whatever the reason may have been, Firmin kept his back to them as he hunched over his desk, already pouring a glass of whiskey. He hadn’t the faintest idea why he should care.  
  
“Is that such a terrible thing?” he asked coolly.  
“Well … yes!” Andre exclaimed. “Firmin, what’s wrong with you? We’d be losing our star!”  
“New year, new opera house,” he said, turning back around to see the incredulous faces of his colleagues. “Same prima donna, it seems. She’ll come through eventually.”  
“Firmin, we sent out those contracts weeks ago.”  
  
Leisurely, he placed himself in his office chair, trying to ignore the migraine that was pushing its way to the forefront of his mind.  
  
“Madame Giry, how many of your dancers have returned their contracts fully signed?” Firmin asked, hoping the mistress could handle Andre on her own to keep Firmin out of it. Based on the sight he observed when he walked in, he doubted that was the case.  
“Monsieur, every dancer, painted, carpenter, stagehand has renewed their contracts with the opera house, except your star attraction.”  
“And pray tell, why not?” He brought a hand up to massage his throbbing temple. “I assumed that Piangi’s death subdued her somewhat.”  
“Precisely that,” the Madame said. “Performing at the gala gave her an epiphany that she cannot continue to work on the same stage where her lover died.”  
  
Typically Firmin was quick witted to think of a backhanded retort to the signora’s outrageous demands. It took a second for the full weight of it to sink in. He opened his mouth, and closed it just as quickly, realizing he could not think of a reason as to why such a request was out of line.  
  
“That … is quite sensible,” he admitted, more than a little shocked that such common sense was capable of their lead soprano.  
“Shall I request a meeting for us to speak with her?” Andre asked.  
“Yes, yes,” Firmin said distractedly. “Just not today.”  
“Well it has to be soon,” Andre countered, perusing the unfulfilled document. “The contracts expire on the first of February.”  
“I do not want you fretting,” Firmin said firmly. “That’s my job.”  
“I find it difficult not to, Richard, when we are in danger of losing our leading lady!”  
  
The use of his given name by Andre was so rare that Firmin knew it was cause for concern. Andre’s voice sounded constricted, cowed into near silence like a schoolboy being scolded by a librarian. With a quick glance to Madame Giry, she took her cue to leave, closing the door behind her. Once it was just the two of them, Firmin stood up and walked over to grab Andre’s hands, caressing them in his own. The red tint in Andre’s face began to fade. They stood close enough to be breathing the same air.  
  
“We have _other_ sopranos,” Firmin said gently. “La Carlotta has been replaced before.”  
“Do you not remember how well that worked in our favor last time?”  
“The beginning worked swimmingly. We just have to be more careful this time.”  
“But what if he’s …” His voice dropped down to a fragile whisper, so delicate that not even the rats who shared the office could hear him. “What if he’s not truly gone? What are we to do when he comes after the next soprano to catch his fancy?”  
  
Firmin rolled eyes, trying hard to keep his voice even. He took a step away and dropped Andre’s hands.  
  
“Oh god, Andre, not you as well.”  
“But if Alice heard a voice calling her name at the ball, is that not cause for concern for you as her father?”  
“Alice’s name has become known to everyone who sets foot in the opera house. Is it that much of a stretch to believe somebody was playing a practical joke on her?”  
“I do not want to take a chance again, Firmin – not when we both have daughters in the business.”  
  
Firmin shot him a questioning glare, resting one hand on the edge of the desk and the other on his hip.  
  
“Are you suggesting, Andre, that Carlotta be the barrier that stops this ghoul from sighting our daughters? I must say, even I have a moral principle, regardless of if I believe the ghost is real or not. To keep her here as a distraction is almost … cruel.”  
  
It was Andre’s turn to glower, in his very Andre way that made Firmin’s eyes roll again.  
  
“Since when do you care for the woman?”  
“I don’t. But I _do_ have a conscience … and, it seems, enough common sense for everyone here who lacks such. There is no opera ghost, and intrinsically, I see no reason to keep Carlotta around if she does not wish to remain here. On that note, for as foul as such a ghost may be, I hardly have reason to suspect he would chase the skirt of a little girl.”  
“And what are you going to do when our ticket sales go down once we lose our seat-filler?”  
“Groom another soprano for stardom,” he suggested, not able to meet his colleague’s eye. It wasn’t ideal, but Carlotta leaving was something he’d thought through before. The real problem would be finding a soprano willing to take the largest billing, as most of them still had fresh memories of fire and corpses pervading the stage.  
“Who did you have in mind? Alice?”  
  
Firmin did not appreciate the sardonic tone. He shot Andre a look to warn him against making such a remark again. Another glass of whiskey was produced. He was desperate to chase away the uneasy atmosphere. The unpleasantness of Madame Bechard still lingered in the back of Firmin’s mind, exacerbating his mood.  
Ω  
Whatever hopes Firmin had that his day would ease once he got Persephone were dashed when he entered the theater to collect her. His mood had only marginally increased when he went to gather Alice, who chattered on about the new book she’d been assigned to read. Hearing her sound so overjoyed about learning made his consternation over her school bills ease.  
Such was not the case with Persephone, who ran to him in a hiccupping fit, her face red and streaked with tears.  
  
“Sef, what happened?” he exclaimed. The girl had taken shelter behind Alice’s skirt.  
  
Turning back, Firmin was not met with the sight of Madame Giraffe, but rather Monsieur Bechard, looking particularly sweaty and dour today. The portly man strutted with more right than he had to, and thrust a scroll of paper toward Firmin.  
  
“What’s this?” he asked, unrolling it.  
“Miss Andre’s outfit was too form-fitting for her to dance in and not have it rip at the waist seams,” Monsieur Bechard said. “The Madame is asking for her to be placed on a strict diet to get her down to size.”  
  
Firmin balked as he scanned the paper.  
  
“This is hardly anything,” he observed. “A cup of spinach and unbuttered toast for breakfast on Tuesdays? No drinking before meals?”  
“It is in the best interest of normalizing her metabolism, of course.”  
“Perhaps, but quite boring, as well. Can a child not enjoy herself every once in a while? No sweets, no sugar?”  
“That can’t be the full list,” Alice said, having perused the document from under her father’s arm. “It says nothing about Sunday meals.”  
“That’s because, dear, Sunday is a fasting day.”  
  
Firmin looked at Monsieur Bechard, and if his face didn’t show it, his head felt ready to explode. The paper crumpled in a trembling fist.  
  
 _“Are you mad?_ ” he exclaimed. “Putting a six-year-old on a fasting diet? That’s a lunatic demand!”  
“A semi-regular occurrence in your own opera house, is it not, Monsieur Firmin?”  
“Monsieur Andre and I may not run a tight brigade, but we at least do not starve our dancers – much less _children!_ I highly doubt Sef’s father will be pleased to read this.” His voice rose, unaware that the two girls behind him flinched at the harshness he displayed. “And quite frankly, I myself am having second thoughts about sending my own daughter here next year, if this is the regime you plan to put her under!”  
  
The Monsieur took a careful step forward, as did Firmin.  
  
“Are you not a man to honor your end of a bargain, Monsieur?” he asked lowly.  
“Not if it endangers the people I care about. And you will _mistake_ _me_ if you believe I don’t look upon Sef as one of my own.”  
Stepping back again, Firmin tightly grasped Alice’s hand.  
  
“It’s a good thing Sef doesn’t attend church," Firmin said sardonically. "We wouldn’t want to gorge her on communion.”  
  
The carriage ride quickly became awkward. Alice couldn’t truly remember the last time she had seen her father so vehemently angry. Perhaps it was the opera house fire, but she was far too young to remember such an occurrence. He now looked ready to tear someone in half. It was quite frightening to witness.  
Tentatively, he unfolded the crumpled paper in his hand and read it over again with a bitter chuckle.  
  
“You don’t need to lose any weight, Sef; don’t you worry,” he assured, although the grit in his voice did little to comfort the frightened child. “Your father will most surely disapprove of this.”  
  
She supposed his mutual disdain for the diet plan was something she should have been grateful for. Certainly Mama would oppose to it, and she wasn’t entirely sure about her papa, but he seemed the type of man to follow orders, although unhappy about them. It took several minutes of unbroken silence for Persephone to truly deliberate over what had transpired. When she came to, she looked up at him with worried eyes.  
  
“Will they give my part to somebody else if I don’t lose weight?”  
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”  
  
She doubted that an outside voice would hold such dominion to the owners, but let the ride to the Populaire continue in uneasy calm. Monsieur Firmin seemed to be in no mood to talk further, much less apologize for his conduct, and Alice looked to her book, hoping to distract. Persephone held her tongue, figuring that bringing up Madame Bechard calling her a ‘fat rabbit’ when the costume tore at her ribcage would only cause Monsieur Firmin to do something most unpleasant.  
It’s not that the rehearsal was all bad. The opening dance was too easy for her to have to rehearse, so the Madame tasked her with a more exciting piece at a faster tempo. That was fun.  
Ω  
It was Firmin’s turn to play on the theatrics. He rushed into the office in a whirlwind, stopping in front of Andre, who shot him a quizzical glance as Persephone stormed past the door without so much as a ‘hello’. Raising a brow to match his partner, Firmin sighed and handed him the crushed paper.  
  
“What is this?” Andre asked.  
“Apparently the Bechards see it fit to starve your child to save them making more costumes,” Firmin said, a hand resting on his hip. His heart was slowly but surely beating in his ears.  
“Starve?” Andre asked incredulously. “Firmin, this is ridiculous!”  
“Exactly! I did have one or two things to say to the Monsieur, though. They frightened the child half to death by the time I got there.”  
“Well this certainly makes our Friday dinner plans a touch more muted,” Andre said, lost in the contents of the paper. “Half a chicken breast and lentils? That doesn’t leave much for even the most imaginative cook.”  
“You speak as though you plan to go through with it.”  
“Well … what else am I to do?”  
  
It took Firmin a second to register what he’d said.  
  
“What do you mean? You’re her _father.”_  
 _“You’re_ the one who insisted we negotiate with them!”  
“That doesn’t mean let them strong-arm us and do what they see fit to our daughters!”  
“Need I remind you, you’re also the one who sold Alice over to them on a silver platter –”  
  
Frantically, Firmin shushed him, looking suddenly to the door. Alice stood, watching them with some interest and mounting apprehension.  
  
“Alice, darling,” he said, grabbing Andre by the shoulder, “please go find Sef. Make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.”  
  
She left, not without a final glance of disbelief cast toward her father. It cut right through him. Frustrated, he slammed the door with more vigor than he’d intended. Taking in a breath, he turned on his heel and marched to Andre, pinning the man between him and the desk.  
  
 _“Do not_ let Alice know I sold her out to those … those _people.”_  
“I disapproved of you doing it in the first place.” There was a sigh. Andre wriggled out from beneath Firmin and made his way around the desk to grab the ink pen. “I’ll have to write Natalia for her opinion on this.”  
“No!”  
  
Andre fixed Firmin with the most peculiar glare, no small hint of annoyance seeping through. Firmin’s face reddened. Damn.  
  
“I told her I would help you make decisions for the girl until she returns. I don’t want her vacation to be disrupted because she cannot stop fretting over her daughter.”  
  
Reclining in his seat, Andre’s expression shifted from surprise to slight amusement. Firmin sighed, knowing what was coming.  
  
“I must say, you make quite the protective mother hen, dear,” Andre quipped, trying hard to stifle a grin. “What exactly prompted this argument with the Bechards?”  
“Persephone is now their resident leading light, due to her name and Nat’s wish for her daughter to have the highest education available. She got the lead in Giselle, and supposedly was unable to fit into her costumes. I got a little … defensive when they gave me her diet plan. It has no flexibility for enjoyment for a child so young.”  
  
Andre nodded and skimmed the paper, making noises of agreement.  
  
“Why is there no meal plan for Sunday? Are they attempting a cleansing for her?”  
“Andre, I will be damned before I let that child go hungry on Sundays.”  
“Sentimental,” Andre noted. “I appreciate that. I expect as such from her godfather.”  
  
Firmin nodded stiffly, feeling more relegated to wifely duties through the course of the day than simply a godfather. Such a thought planted a seed of conflicting emotions in the pit of his stomach. Trying to sort them out made his head hurt worse.  
  
“I advise you to think over this carefully,” Firmin said, moving to the door. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand being away from home after such a trying day. “If they threaten to take her out of the leading lady’s slot, I may have to have another stern talk with the Bechards.”  
“I will consider it, Firmin. Thank you.”  
Ω  
“What did Monsieur Andre mean?”  
  
It seemed that the book was not enough to put Alice in a reverie. She fixed her father with a stern glare as he helped Helene, their maid, carry a crate of milk to the lavatory.  
  
“Nothing, darling – he was just misinformed.”  
  
Her glower did not falter, but turned into a lip-sucking pout, reminiscent of her mother. She followed him in, careening around the maid as he poured the milk into the steaming bath water.  
  
“I told the Bechards that I was interested in enrolling you into their facility,” he admitted, figuring that a little white lie wouldn’t be too painful for her. “After my experience with them today, I’m reconsidering.”  
“That’s not what it sounded like. He said you sold me.”  
“I would never sell you, darling,” he sighed. “Only I would pay the high price for you. Now if you don’t plan on helping, go to the kitchen and get to your schoolwork. I am not having your lessons suffer to further your performative career.”  
  
Eyeing him carefully, she left.  
Sea salt and honey drifted in thick billows of steam around the lavatory. A single whiff caused Firmin’s stiff spine to loosen and relax. It was the first time he felt unbothered since he woke up that morning. He was beginning to undo his cravat when there was a timid knock at the door.  
  
“Enter.”  
  
Helene entered, eyes on the floor. Her face was tinted like a very embarrassed ruby. As the domestic, it was improper for her to see the head of the house in a state of undress.  
  
“I was wondering, sir, if there was anything else you would need of me before I have to go. Dinner is cooling on the stove and the little one is in the kitchen with her homework.”  
“No, my dear; that will be all we need from you for the night. Thank you.”  
  
She nodded and left the room quietly, leaving him to continue undressing. She was a young and rather pretty thing, what with her peculiar front tooth gap and thick curls of inky black hair. As a young girl, Alice had asked him once or twice why he hadn’t considered marrying her in place of his Loren. Truthfully he knew his hesitation to remarry wasn’t doing him any favors in terms of sharing the stress load and that Alice needed a mother around to aid in things he simply couldn’t help her with, but he felt discouraged to run out and settle down with some young French tart he barely knew. The one time he felt inclined to follow such actions, his daughter was already two months in the making.  
The bath water was hot enough that he could loosen his muscles and recline back in the tub, resting a damp cloth on his face. From outside, he heard Alice winding their phonograph and sighed. Long ago, he’d discovered that silence was a great sacrifice in the game of parenthood. He foolishly assumed that she would perhaps want some quiet to herself as she got older.  
Still, he allowed himself to fall into a trance as the tension in his body loosened. After a short time, he slipped into a gentle sleep, feeling at peace for the first time that day.  
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but when he came to, it was to the sound of the lavatory door creaking open and closing again. A glower of annoyance simmered in his chest.  
  
“Firmin, I do hate to admit it, but I believe you’re right.”  
  
Andre’s voice was both the most unexpected and the last voice he’d wished to hear that day. It startled Firmin enough out of his reverie that he removed the rag from his face. Through a drowsy haze, he saw Andre standing in the lavatory, some several feet from the bathtub, still holding the old document.  
“Did I frighten you?” he asked.  
“Only a little, although I had planned to have the rest of the day to myself. I don’t know about you personally, but I like to keep my work and home separate.”  
“Does that not mean anymore that we’d occasionally see each other outside of the opera house? We had planned to have dinner on Friday, did we not?”  
“Is it Friday yet, or is it still Monday?” Firmin asked, wringing out the rag.  
“Well … Monday. But since when do you not relish me coming to you to stroke your ego and grovel?”  
“When I’ve had a long day and wish to not have to scream at somebody. If you want to stay, hand me the towel.”  
  
Being good friends for twenty-eight years left quite a lot of time for two people to lay all their cards on the table. There was scarcely anything Firmin and Andre didn’t know about one another. For one to be unclothed in front of the other was just as much a normal occurrence as fretting over the state of their workplace.  
  
“So you agree with me that Sef’s diet is ridiculous?”  
“A bit, yes,” Andre conceded, handing Firmin the clothing that was too far out of the man’s reach as he stood in the tub. “Even if I agreed to put her under such an exacting regime, it seems much too soon. She’s adjusting to a new house, a new family, and she’s noticeably missing her mother. I’d feel much more settled discussing it with Nat when she gets back.”  
  
Firmin buttoned his night shirt and tried not to feel guilty. He wasn’t sure how much longer the charade could continue before Andre heard from an outside source.  
  
“I appreciate you seeing my point of view, but why could this not wait until tomorrow?”  
“I’d like your help in drafting a letter to the Bechards. As Persephone’s father, it is my place to say something, but you’re better at handling confrontation than I am.”  
“Where is Persephone? Did you bring her with you? How did you get in here anyway?”  
“Alice let us in. The girls are enjoying the phonograph records.”  
  
Firmin let out a disgruntled _tisking_ noise, making a mental note to have yet another talk with Alice about not opening the door when he was unobtainable.  
  
“Don’t be so miffed with her,” Andre said, noticing his disapproval. “She’s known me for ten years – she should be accustomed to my voice by now.”  
“You hold a lot of leisure for children answering the door for somebody who is convinced we were struck down by a ghost.”  
Ω  
The following hour saw Firmin sitting at his desk, alternatively writing and watching Andre pace up and down the length of the home office. Contrasting their shared and roomy quarters at work, Firmin’s office in his house was towering with books and there was little room reserved for walking. It had once been Alice’s toy room, until she self-admittedly grew too old for such childish nonsense and sold a good portion of her toys to help her father after the unpleasantness of the opera fire.  
  
“– accordingly, having gone through a major unearthing of oneself and one’s family, it is not in Persephone’s best interest to put her under yet another abrupt lifestyle change so soon.”  
“Andre, they don’t know you just discovered you’re her father, remember?” Firmin said, resting the pen on the desk. “We told them at the party that you’ve always known.”  
“Hm.” The pacing stopped, only for a moment, before continuing with renewed energy. He was taking great strides with the little space available. “‘A major _upheaval_ of oneself and one’s family,’ and then in parentheses, _‘divorce.’”  
_  
He stopped for a minute to allow Firmin time to write it all down.  
  
“Furthermore, I would like to impress the seriousness of Madame Bechard’s comment that my daughter is a ‘fat rabbit,’ due to –”  
“She called Sef a _what?”  
  
_ Andre stopped and turned, quite surprised to see Firmin’s face overwhelmed with shock and hurt. Certainly he himself was put off by such a comment, but as her father, he felt that was usual.  
  
“Oh yes, the poor dear was distraught over it – broke down in tears when she told me. I had half a mind to march to the Magnifique and demand an apology upfront. The only reason I stopped myself was Persephone begged me not to cause a scene. They can mark me on this that there will not be a second occurrence, or else I will be giving them a piece of my mind, much closer and louder than they’d wish.”  
  
It wasn’t lost on him how Firmin smirked as he wrote.  
  
“Something funny, Richard?”  
“Nothing too terribly funny, no – only that the Monsieur has a good hundred pounds on you.”  
“Continuing,” Andre said, clearly displeased. “A ‘fat rabbit,’ due to a rip in the costume seams as Persephone attempted a triple somersault. If it would put you out of business to create new costumes, I will gladly redesign Persephone’s outfits myself, or lend a generous amount of money toward buying the necessary materials. Persephone is not one to gorge herself on meals and therefore does not need a strict diet, unlike some who must go unnamed in this letter, but they know who they are, and should consider some self-reflection before chiding small children on their weight.”  
“Do you think that’s wise? Writing a letter of opposition is already going to ignite some ire.”  
“Richard, they made my daughter cry. I don’t give a damn if they try to torch me. They will not do it again.”  
  
So rare was it to see Andre so righteous with anger, Firmin’s brows rose in surprise, as did a chill up his spine, tinging his face with heat. Something about watching Andre so angry felt … alluring. Inexplicably, Firmin felt an urge to see more of him in such a state.  
He could not fathom why at all.  
Clearing his throat and crossing one leg over the other, he continued to write.  
  
“I am additionally disturbed that this issue was not given to me directly. Any situation regarding Persephone’s wellbeing should be discussed between Natalia and myself, as her parents. Should the matter be so pressing that no wait time is accessible, and Miss Bay or I are indisposed, the decision making should be consigned to Monsieur Firmin in the absentee parent’s place, and subsequently discussed in a meeting between the four parties until a compromise is reached. As Monsieur Firmin and myself strongly disagree with the matter at the heart of this letter, I would like to request a meeting at the earliest possible convenience.”  
“You know, you’re handling this much better than I would be,” Firmin noted, setting the pen down again after some time to stretch out his cramping fingers. “If somebody had called my daughter fat, heaven only knows what bone I’d be breaking next in their body.”  
“I haven’t had ten years to build that protective bond, have I?” At this, Andre allowed himself to fall into the only other chair in the room. “Just as well, I don’t believe that Natalia would be particularly pleased if she came back to discover that I’d gotten our daughter kicked out of the house with which she herself had grown up. I’m, as you’d say, making it up as I go along.”  
  
There was a soft knock at the door.  
  
“Enter.”  
  
Alice sauntered in, eyes barely open.  
  
“Papa, Persephone says she’s getting tired and wants to go home.”  
“Get her a blanket and pillow, dear; I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be.”  
“My god!” Andre exclaimed, only just then catching sight of the clock. “Ten already? Yes, we should be going.”  
“You find the letter satisfactory?”  
  
Andre stood, taking great strides to the door. Firmin got up to follow.  
  
“Yes, yes, you can make whatever adjustments you see fit to it and I’ll look it over before you take her to the opera house tomorrow. Sign it off, _‘yours cordially, Gilles Andre.’”  
_  
Persephone was out for the count by the time they reached the living room. Her arms and hair were splayed about the couch, one leg hanging lazily off. Had she stirred, she would have fallen straight on her face. Ever so gently, Andre collected the girl in his arms, sighing contently when her head nuzzled into his neck. Firmin watched with rapt, careful attention.  
  
“Thank you, Richard. Sincerely.”  
  
Watching Andre bound the steps, and disappear into the dimly lit suburban street with the child in his arms, Firmin felt the oddest urge to grab him by the arm and say “Stay.” Maybe it was the way Persephone, assaulted by the bitter January chill, wrapped her arms around Andre’s neck. Firmin wanted to curl her in the nearest quilt and hold her til she succumbed to sleep. He chalked it up to the mother in him. He had no way of feeling assured that Andre would find a carriage at such a late hour. It was dangerous enough by himself. Carrying the added weight of a small child reinforced Firmin’s shielding instinct tenfold.  
He put that instinct to task, tucking Alice snugly into bed for the night.  
He didn’t even pull the covers back before he collapsed into his own bed, never before feeling quite so desperate for rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. Mama Firmin is (´༎ຶ ͜ʖ ༎ຶ `)♡
> 
> My best friend read this and said she imagined Monsieur Bechard as Big Ed from 90-Day Fiance and thanks, I hate it


	8. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good morning results in a terrible work day, which in turn results in a not-as-terrible evening alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SKIP THIS CHAPTER IF YOU DON'T WISH TO READ ABOUT S I N

_Carnal desire was the oddest sensation Andre had ever experienced._  
 _There had been a woman stalking about his entourage since the moment he set foot in the opera house for the masquerade. She frequented the chance to catch his eye when his lady of the evening would vanish, and quite sheepishly he had to admit he didn’t mind the presence of this new young woman. She had a gorgeous mane of thick brown curls, and her porcelain skin and emerald eyes seemed to dazzle in comparison to her garish hawk mask. Out of view, hands roved playfully, but never too much to attract a disapproving eye._  
 _He didn’t even say anything to her. They only exchanged a look and took off._  
 _How he found himself entwined with this woman in an empty broom closet, behaving so boorishly and primitively, he hadn’t the faintest idea. All sense of time and self and respectability was lost. No words (at least coherent) were exchanged throughout the entire encounter._  
 _He wasn’t entirely sure how long they stayed in the broom closet, him lying hazily on the woman and her stroking his hair, both of them matted with sweat and impropriety, their heartbeats thudding rapidly. He did know he did not want to leave.  
_  
It was the result of this one encounter that woke him up, many years forgotten, with little fingers pressing at his face – raising an eyebrow here, caressing the coarseness of his unshaven chin there. Drowsily, he opened an eye to see her looking at him. Daybreak had barely begun to peer in through the curtain, yet her face was aglow with interest he couldn’t quite discern. For as much as he enjoyed looking at her eyes, the first light of the day was an exception. He closed his eye, hoping it would bring some relief.  
  
“It was to my knowledge that I gave you a room of your own,” he said, although some of it was muffled into the pillow.  
“I wonder if my nose will grow to look more like yours or Mama’s.”  
  
He opened his eye again, narrowly, to study her. Definitely her mother’s nose, thank heavens.  
  
“My mama’s hair is brown and yours is grey. Why is mine black?”  
“Is this not an affair that could wait until breakfast?”  
“Monsieur Firmin already brought breakfast for us.”  
  
His eyes opened, more alert now.  
  
“What time is it?” he asked, craning his back to look around for the clock.  
“Six o’clock. I woke up and Monsieur Firmin and Alice were sitting at the table with jam and toast and –”  
  
Tuning her out, Andre climbed out of bed to grab his morning robe and clamber down the steps, with Persephone closely in tow. Indeed sitting at the table, as though it was his house, Firmin was buttering a slice of bread and looked up at Andre to smile pleasantly. Croissants and Danishes were arranged artfully on a plate, heaps of bacon and dry toast on another. Pitchers of milk and juice far too great for a gathering of four were being carefully distributed to the small children in need of its richness. Discarded in the corner were two paper bags, which Andre recognized from the local delicatessen.  
  
“Firmin, what are you doing here?”  
“Since we’ve grown so accustomed to each other that you felt the need to walk into my home last night –” He shot a pointed look at Alice, who blushed. “I thought it would be a nice start to the morning to bring over some breakfast.”  
“But why so early?” Regardless of his own incredulity, Andre allowed himself to take a free seat at the round table. “You know I don’t have an appetite before eight o’clock.”  
“Well, the girls need to be dropped off in an hour and I won’t have them go hungry.”  
  
A feeling stirred pleasantly in Andre’s chest as he watched Firmin stand up and attend to both of their daughters. It was a touch comforting knowing his closest friend got along so well with his child. Had Andre not known better, he could have joked about them all coming together as one happy family.  
But that wasn’t the life Firmin intended to share with him, nor one that society would agree upon. Firmin’s disapproval of getting re-wed spoke clear volumes.  
Andre ate his toast, as it was the only thing he had the stomach for, and stayed silently amused. It was a tad delightful to watch the authority and brutishness melt away as Firmin wiped some jam from Alice’s mouth or piled croissants onto Persephone’s plate. He was as doting a mother as Andre had ever seen.  
  
“Nat took the liberty of sending me documents for the girl,” Firmin said, sitting down again. “In case we were to need them. You’re listed on her birth certificate, meaning that in the event of … well, should anything happen to Nat, then Sef would be entrusted into your care.”  
  
Andre stopped eating to consider this.  
  
“I suppose it’s a good thing that Natalia contacted us when she did then. Imagine the fright from the poor girl if she was to just be dumped into a stranger’s house without a prior introduction. And anyway, it is beneficial, but hardly necessary,” he said distractedly. “What could possibly happen in a three-week absence?”  
“My point _being,_ ” Firmin stressed (and Andre found it the littlest bit peculiar and patronizing), “I’m not yet Sef’s legal godfather. We need to make room in our schedules to correct that.”  
“Perhaps we could, but that’s an ecclesiastic bind; not a legal one. Not to mention, we don’t know if Persephone has any other godparents.”  
“She doesn’t. Nat asked me to fill in until it could be made official.”  
  
Andre, who felt the smallest pang of jealousy, narrowed his eyes at Firmin.  
  
“When did you find the time to discuss all of this with her?”  
“Christmas, when you took the girls to get books.”  
“That’s a lot of business to be discussed over a simple holiday.”  
“Well, best to err on the side of caution and prepare for any eventuality.”  
  
The conversation faltered to a near silence, save for the rustling of food and clinking glasses. Andre observed the table and its occupants. They really could be a family, even a joking one, should they want to.  
  
“When Helene came by this morning, I found myself unable to go back to sleep,” Firmin said. “So I redrafted the letter to the Bechards.”  
  
From his interior breast pocket, he pulled out a folded letter and handed it to Andre, who read it through carefully. Another prolonged silence commenced as Firmin studied his partner’s expressions. Most of them he took for solemn approval.  
  
“Excellent work, Richard,” he pronounced, handing the letter back and finishing his work on his toast.  
“What’s the letter about?” Persephone asked. Her voice betrayed a hint of worry that made Andre wince.  
“Nothing to fret, dear,” he assured. “Monsieur Firmin and I are requesting a meeting to discuss this unusual diet they presented to you.”  
“Will I have to go through a diet when I rehearse?” Alice chimed in. The thought had hit her suddenly and a wave of terror washed over her gentle eyes.  
“Certainly not,” Firmin said. “The Opera Populaire doesn’t demand fasting and diets of its performers. I will not entertain you having to endure.”  
“But why?”  
“Because we’re not evil, dear,” Andre said slyly, doing away with the rest of the orange juice.  
Ω  
The mail that had poured in since the gala put Andre in a far better mood than the foreboding bills. A countess’ invitation to a salon, piles and piles of congratulatory letters, invitations to card games, all written in impeccably formal manners that made his heart swell with each broken seal.  
Firmin walked into the office. Andre looked up at him, beaming.  
  
“How did it go?”  
“Surprisingly well. There was no arguing. They agreed to a meeting at noon.”  
  
Andre’s eyebrows rose, a little nonplussed. Far from it, he expected Firmin to come back with bruises and scratches. The Bechards were as new to aristocracy and civility as the men themselves were. Exchanging a look of shared surprise at their good fortune, Firmin moved to sit down at his desk.  
  
“Should I tell Madame Giry to take her break now then?” Andre suggested, skimming through the rest of their letters. “How long do you suspect the meeting will last?”  
“Hard to say. Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour. These people are unpredictable.”  
“Lest it be an hour, better also tell the Madame to move up our appointment with La Carlotta to two o’clock. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”  
Ω  
At precisely ten minutes to noon, the coach rolled to a slow stop outside of the magnificent mahogany doors of the rival opera house. Waiting for them was the much-discussed Madame and Monsieur, a touch of gentility on their features that had been absent the day before. Pleasantries were exchanged as they made their way into the front hall.  
A small figure rushed up to the group, too fast for Andre to take notice, and a pair of arms wrapped firmly around his waist. When he looked down, a mesh of thick black hair was nestled into his ribcage. She looked up at him, flashing a dazzlingly white (if not somewhat toothless) smile. Unaccustomed still to the excessive affection, at least publicly, Andre stiffly ran a hand through her hair.  
  
“I see your leotard fits,” Firmin said with more bravado than necessary, hoping the Bechards would take note. Although the Madame nodded politely, she stayed quiet and shooed the child away. With a final squeeze around her father, she took great leaps and twists to leave them alone.  
  
They took residence in the familiar drawing room, camped in their designated chairs as they’d done two months past. On the tea table before them, in place of cognac and rich-smelling cigars (the bittersweet scent of the discarded ones from the carriage clung as heavy as soot to Firmin and Andre’s jackets), were tea sandwiches and heaven scented brioche buns. Not one to lack courtesy or miss lunch, Andre wasted no time in helping himself.  
  
“I read your letter carefully, Monsieur,” the Madame said after some time. “I was hoping you yourself would have picked Persephone up yesterday in Monsieur Firmin’s place, so that I could have talked with you personally about the girl’s diet plan.”  
“I see no need to discuss a diet plan, Madame.” A little uncouth to speak through a mouthful of bread, he finished swallowing before he spoke again. “The point stands, for me at least, that Persephone need not have one at all.”  
  
A soft rose color tinted the woman’s high cheekbones as her lips pursed. It was evident she was trying to keep her gaze composed. Obviously, the managerial position was more or less her territory. Andre wondered, then, what that left for the Monsieur, besides sitting around to get fat.  
  
“I shall have to politely disagree with that.”  
“I’m afraid to say, Madame, there is no _‘politely’_ about it,” Firmin interjected. No matter the woman’s composure now, he was still displeased with her behavior the day previously. “Is it not possible that your tailor simply got the wrong measurements for the child? She has grown some in height since last year, as children are wont to do.”  
“Height doesn’t cover for the costume’s seams tearing at her ribcage,” the Monsieur said gruffly. “And the girl is too young to be developing breasts, so chest expansion is not the issue.”  
  
Firmin shot a glance to Andre, who tipped his hat a bit further over his eyes, wishing he could have not heard such a comment. A soft scowl was noticeable in the area of his face that wasn’t shrouded by the dim lamp light of the room.  
  
“Are we to repeat this discussion and argument when the girl reaches puberty?” Firmin asked. “Is it to be that you’re willing to instill a poor self-image into this child when she’s not yet close to her adolescence? What are you going to do when she’s fourteen and her weight swells from hormones? No amount of dieting could fix that.”  
  
His mother was an example of this. Bless her heart, the woman had been overweight since long before his appearance into the universe, and nothing by the grace of god was of any help to her. What she lacked in her ability to chase him around as a child and kick cloth balls in the gutter, she made up for in rich meals that ensured his growth into a well-groomed, well-fed young man.  
  
“I believe Miss Bay’s wish was for her daughter to receive the highest opportunities available in the art of ballet,” the Madame said tightly.  
“I’ve been keeping a correspondence with Nat since her departure, and she has entrusted me with decision making along with the girl’s father until she returns. It is in my view, therefore in the girl’s mother’s view, that Sef’s health should be kept at the highest priority.”  
“The girl’s health is at the heart of my concerns, Monsieur. I only want her in the most vigorous physical form I can provide as her instructor. I do not wish Persephone to end up in the same state as her mother.”  
  
The air grew tense with rigid silence. Firmin’s head, for the time cocked to the side, shot up to look at Andre, whose eyes narrowed in puzzlement. Casting a warning look to the Madame, Firmin’s grimace grew deeper into his chiseled features.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning,” Andre said.  
“You mean you haven’t told him?” she asked, throwing an appraising glance to Firmin, who blanched.  
“Jeanne, maybe now is not the time –”  
“Madame, please –”  
“Monsieur, are you not aware that Miss Bay is not coming back?”  
 _“Jean –”_  
Both Monsieur Bechard and Firmin grabbed the arms of their respective partners: Bechard out of command and Firmin out of defense.  
“Andre, perhaps we should talk in private.”  
“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes not once leaving the Madame.  
“How could you not know?”  
“Know what?”  
“Miss Bay has cancer; she’s going to Dijon to correct it –”  
 _“Jeanne!”_  
“- but in my view, she’s going there to die!”  
 ** _“THAT’S ENOUGH!”_**  
The boom in Firmin’s voice startled Andre out of his trance. Quickly, realization shone through as the shock vanished with a slow blink of his eyes. Brows creased at his utter refusal to believe it. Slowly, he turned to Firmin, and the younger man was unnerved at the way his eyes seemed to shift so suddenly from their earthy, rich green and brown blend to murky and muddy, simmering with hurt.  
  
“Did you know of this?”  
“Gilles, it might be best to talk outside.”  
  
The arm that was accosted by Firmin’s hands pulled away roughly. Andre looked at Firmin as though his touch had burned right through to the flesh.  
Andre was on his feet and taking angry strides before he knew what he was doing. Out of pure instinct, Firmin trailed behind him. It was not lost on him how Andre’s hands curled so tightly around his gloves that the crunching of leather was perceptible.  
The carriage ride back to their opera house was wrought with tension. Every time Firmin had prepared words in his mind, they came out in choked fragments.  
  
“Andre, be sensible … if only you could see … well … yes, I know I …”  
  
A sheen of winter light on the carriage window tinted Andre in a white glow, illuminating the green in his eyes. Or eye, as Firmin saw it. Andre spared him not a glance or a sound from the time they left until they got back to their office.  
It seemed, for the both of them, the prolonged silence of the carriage ride only fueled their shared anger at each other.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Firmin had only just barely closed the door, trying to stop his impulse to slam it to let every-body know it was not a day to trifle with them. Sighing, he rested his hand on his hip.  
  
“I was respecting Nat’s wish to let you know later.”  
“How much later, Richard? When she would not show up two weeks from now and I would send a manhunt out to search for her? When she dies?”  
“She is not going to die!” Firmin waved the thought away with irritation. “God in heaven, why is everybody so insistent on the worst? She’s there to get help.”  
“I should be there with her!”  
 _“That!_ That is exactly why she didn’t tell you. You’ve become quite obsessed with the woman, which is ironic as you were keen to send her away with a lump sum for the child to leave you alone.”  
  
Andre rounded on Firmin, eyes ablaze.  
  
“That is the _mother_ of my _daughter!”_  
“Tell me, Andre – would you have ever sought the girl out and tried to maintain a relationship had I not pushed you to do so?”  
  
The graveness of Firmin’s voice, coupled with Andre’s mouth opening to retort and then promptly closing again, spoke volumes to the both of them.  
Opening his mouth again with the swell of his chest, Andre could only manage “Damn you!” before rounding the desk to sit down.  
He rested his head on his threaded fingers.  
  
“Miss Bay does not need the undue stress of another person to look after whilst she is seeking treatment.” Firmin’s voice was tight. “If you’d have been paying attention, you would have seen that not only has she not been reciprocating your undue advances, but she’s been sick since the day she sought us out!”  
  
Andre’s head lifted up. Time seemed to slow down as he looked up at Firmin. Both of their faces paled from pent up emotions boiling over much too fast to stop them.  
  
“Did you sleep with her?”  
  
The question was so soft, Firmin barely heard it. It took a second for the thought to fully register.  
  
“What?”  
 _“Did you sleep with her?”  
_  
For as small as Andre was, his ability to produce enough aggression to send Firmin stumbling back, cornered into his own desk, was impressive. Firmin could easily pick him up by the arms should he really want to, but not when Andre was a great ball of red-faced rage. The sheer force of his rage seemed to put an extra thirty pounds on him.  
  
“Christmas, when I took the girls out, did you take it upon yourself to bed Natalia, knowing I had feelings for her?”  
“Of course not!”  
“Then why did you stay behind with her? Why is she so trusting of you?”  
“Could it be because I’m not a mad man who intends to chase her all the way to Dijon? I apologize for my conduct, but had I not been your go-between when Miss Bay asked it of me, the situation would be in greater shambles than it is now! The girl would be without either of her parents, and what would you do had she died in Dijon and left you alone?”  
  
When he shoved Andre off, the older gentleman did not retaliate. Instead, he took a step back, both of their breaths ragged. The scraping of Firmin’s office chair reverberated with deafening volume in both of their ears. Andre’s expression had shifted to one of unwilling sheepishness. Firmin found it difficult to feel sorry for him.  
  
“If you would …” he approached gently, taking a breath to steady his erratic heartbeat. “I believe it would alleviate both of us to argue more of this later tonight. At your house.”  
  
A brow slowly lifted in consideration. Andre’s eyes were glued to the corner of the room, although it was unclear where his focus lied. After some time, he nodded his head in agreement.  
  
“I’d ask that you let Persephone spend the night at your house then.”  
“Alice would be delighted with that.”  
“Shall we say, six-thirty?”  
“That sounds fine.”  
  
Firmin sat down at his desk, trying to return his focus to where it was needed presently.  
  
“Should I go home then, and get ready?” Andre asked quietly. “What of Carlotta?”  
“I’ll deal with her on my own. Go home.”  
  
Andre walked slowly, taking gentler strides to the door than he’d done a few minutes earlier.  
  
“At some point, Firmin, it would be wise to leave some decisions for me, where my family lies.”  
Ω  
With a child now living in his house, Andre hadn’t had time to relish the sound of sweet nothingness. Should she not be playing with dolls in high voices in her room, she was bouncing about the kitchen like a bee to a honeycomb, never draining her lithe little body of energy. Constantly in motion, she always seemed to leave Andre in her wake, struggling to keep up.  
The house was oddly still, yet his own thoughts deafened him. Running the water for the tub was almost too much for him. He decided against adding extra ingredients to the bath. He’d have to take another one later in the night anyway.  
Cancer? Of all things, _cancer?_  
Could it not have been something else, anything else that Andre could have thrown some money at to fix?  
And why, just why, would she tell everybody but him? Did he not matter? The father of her only child?  
Did Persephone know?  
  
The warmth of the water did little to appease his aching muscles. For as fast as they unwound, he tensed them again with each unyielding question. Closing his eyes, he saw only the image of his young daughter’s eyes welling with tears and pain too searing for him to focus on.  
He would have to be the one to tell Persephone of her mother’s death. Firmin could only help so much.  
The hours crawled by in a miserable haze as Andre waited for his partner. Attempts to draft a letter to Natalia were binned almost as soon as the words were conceived. One too vague, another too harsh, the last he just couldn’t bring himself to finish.  
He nearly flew out of his seat when a knock came from his office door. Opening it, Firmin stood, void of even the most passive emotion.  
  
“Gilles,” he said gruffly.  
“Richard,” he greeted back. “My room?”  
“Of course.”  
  
Andre led the way upstairs, already loosening his cravat.  
Firmin closed the door behind them, surprised by the intensity of the room’s lighting.  
  
“Since when did you get electric lights?”  
  
Unbuttoning his vest, Andre cast a glance to Firmin – he himself kicking off his shoes – and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Three days ago. I was trying to find my way to Persephone’s room as she was crying in the night, and I tripped over one of her damned dolls.”  
  
Firmin smirked, partly amused and partly undone by the sight of Andre unbuttoning his interior shirt.  
  
“Happened to me and Loren all the time,” he quipped. “Are you so impatient that you’d rather spend thousands to rewire your house than tell her to put her toys away?”  
“It was a china doll.”  
  
His brows went up.  
  
“That explains the bloodstain on the rug,” he mused.  
“I forgot to tell you – we got an invitation to Baroness Deveraux’ salon next Sunday.”  
“We should go, I suppose. God knows how long it’ll be before we’re able to attend another.”  
“It does give the girls an excuse to have a slumber party, although I disapprove of such an occasion the night before a rehearsal.”  
“What about now?”  
  
Andre looked at his partner.  
  
“I can make exceptions.”  
“I don’t like this light,” Firmin decided, flicking at the wall’s switch, pitching them into near-total blackness. “Switch on the bedside lamp.”  
  
Whereas Firmin’s clothes encircled him in a neat burgundy snare, Andre’s clothes were strewn about in his fervency to get them off. Socks were kicked under the bed. His britches were tossed onto a nearby chair, as was his vest. The rest pooled around him, carnage of expensive fabric that Firmin, ever frugal, did not care to see ruined in their foolishness.  
They both took steps forward, closing the distance between them. Firmin looked down at his partner curiously, studying the earnest anticipation his eyes so desperately clung to.  
  
“When’s the last time we did this?” Andre questioned, barely above a whisper. Had Firmin not known better, he dared to say that Andre was being too sentimental for his own good.  
“Before Alice, I think.”  
“Are you not afraid your skills have rusted a bit in ten years of absence?”  
“Do not test me, Andre. Or it’ll be much worse for you later.”  
  
As the older man bowed to his knees, Firmin was not lost to see that there was a smirk tugging at Andre’s lips, as if to say _‘I’m counting on it.’_  
Coarse yet nimble spittle-coated fingers wrapped around the area of Firmin that Andre’s throat just couldn’t endure. A scarlet flush warmed Firmin’s face, a gruff “My god” pushing past his lips at the attention he had been neglected these past several years. Threading his hand through Andre’s soft halo of hair, the rest of the world fell away. There was something so mesmerizing about his pristine and proper Andre, undone at Firmin’s whim and desperate to be controlled. The hand that Andre had wrapped around him only squeezed him harder, causing a choking noise to seize control of Firmin’s throat. The _bastard._  
Firmin was reaching his peak as Andre covered him in dribble, bringing his head away only for a moment to admire his handiwork before diving right back. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. Electric jolts shot right through Firmin’s spine in a delightful burning sensation. Worried of his work finishing too early, Firmin removed his hand from Andre’s head and brought it to his shoulder, pushing him away with a husky “In the bed” and a snap of his fingers.  
The covers were thrown back and Andre slipped right through them. It took Firmin a minute to get his legs to work without the support of the bed. As the normal color returned to his face, Firmin tugged the blanket back even further, nudging Andre’s knees apart to make a home between his legs. Tentatively, Andre pointed at the bedside table.  
  
“There’s oil in the drawer –”  
“Oh, shove off with your oil.” Firmin’s voice was unkind, gravelly. The older man’s chest thudded with astounding visibility as the provocation grew heavier. “I’ll use hair tonic if I want to, just to make your insides burn. We’re angry at each other, remember?”  
  
Firmin at least had the common decency to pull the covers back on. Even in the privacy of his own empty home, Andre felt a desire to keep some semblance of nobility to his character. For the brief time that Firmin pressed their chests together to align himself with his partner, Andre’s fingers brushed lithely and almost amorously over Firmin’s shoulder, curling into a dangerous scratch as their bodies carefully disappeared into one another.  
  
“Gilles, if you leave one scratch for the maid to find, I swear to god …”  
  
Not visibly red scratches, but decent half-moon crescents would be indented into him the next morning. Spittle just wasn’t enough and the resistance burned halfway to inexperienced hell.  
  
“I don’t want you to think of her, or anybody else.” Andre was surprised at the level of control in his voice as the intrusion was met with a determined sigh by his partner. “Only me.”  
“Oh god, you sentimental creature.”  
  
Waiting for Andre to become accustomed to the sensation, Firmin steadied himself up on the palms of his hands and looked down between them to see Andre’s own excitement evident and growing ever present. After some time, Firmin began to move, unwilling to continue his well-mannered hand. The adjustment period was over, and he drove into him with all the fanaticism of seven lonely years and two breakneck days. The strangled gasp from Andre’s throat only encouraged him to go further.  
  
“Is this how you did away with her?” Firmin asked, ragged and unable to steady his voice. When he grabbed a shoulder to be able to push in harder, Andre’s eyes screwed shut, a bustle of indecent phrases spilling out of his mouth in panting increments. “Made her a broom closet whore? Left her filled with your spawn inside of her?”  
  
As Andre’s legs fell wider and curled closer to his body, Firmin was able to push deeper. Just as soon, he saw the man’s mouth fall open. “Oh god” is all he’s capable of for the next several minutes – or hours. Time was blurred when they went into such a primitive state.  
It wasn’t enough. The anger of the day was only dissipating the slightest bit. He needed to torture the man.  
Stopping only for a moment, hearing a blissful whine get caught in Andre’s throat, Firmin shifted so he was now on his elbows, crushing Andre’s swollen limb between them. From the look on the man’s face, he was so absolutely close. Gasps that got caught in his throat grew to guttural whimpers.  
  
“I don’t want you in Dijon,” Firmin huffed. “I want you right here. Exactly as you are.”  
 _“Yes,”_ the gentleman rasped. “Always _yes.”  
_  
Firmin continued his frantic pace, now alternating between looking up at Andre’s dearly pleasured expression to the weeping limb rubbing against his belly. It didn’t take long for its release to make a sticky mess of the both of them. Andre’s legs trembled and he sung breathless praises to his partner.  
Firmin stayed close to him, continuing his fervent drive. As he kept going regardless of Andre’s own peak, he fisted the sheets. Watching Andre writhe and whimper underneath his touch, like some paid street whore, would be his undoing. He would never allow ten years to get in the way of these moments again.  
As he ground into his partner, awaiting his own breathless end, he closed his eyes and tilted his head up, letting his own mouth drop open in unending waves of longing as he was engulfed in hot honey warmth.  
The most peculiar sensation then – a hand on the back of his neck. Looking down at his partner, Andre’s other hand, trembling, rested on his back. Beyond carnality, Firmin recognized, beyond gratification, there was adoration. The words had long since faltered. They were nearly chest to chest, as close to one being as was possible for them to experience. For that moment in time, words failed as eyes met, reeling with devotion.  
They continued looking at each other when Firmin’s hips slowed their movements to a softer, less painful roll. More than a few strands of hair had fallen in his face. Andre tucked them behind Firmin’s ear, stroking a thumb over his cheek.  
It was this movement that made Firmin unravel, and he allowed himself to collapse on Andre with a shared gasp. They lay in this position for a while, their thoughts coming to them in slow fragments as the blood rushed back to their brains. Acting on pure instinct rather than letting his mind have much say, Firmin buried his head against the nook of Andre’s neck and shoulder. To his surprise, Andre complied, resting one hand at the nape of Firmin’s neck, letting a thumb brush against his shaved hairline. Such an act was beyond comprehension in their much younger years. Recalling a memory, Firmin let out a puff of laughter that clung to Andre’s tacky skin.  
  
 _“God, Gilles, do you ever bathe yourself?”_  
 _The smells pervading their small room were strong enough that Firmin had half a mind to redress and take a walk outside to breathe some fresh air into his lungs. Andre turned to him, smiling amiably. He pawed for the clothes on the night stand. He would not concede that his post-sex cigarettes may have also added to the unpleasantness._  
 _“Regularly.”_  
 _“Then why do you smell like sweat and piss mixed up in a bucket?”_  
 _“A lot of sensations, dear Richard,” he said sweetly, sitting upright once he hitched his undergarments on. “You can’t expect the room to smell of cinnamon and fresh pine, can you?”_  
 _“I at least expect to not want to run the other way once we’re done.”_  
 _“Buy a candle then."_  
  
At some point Firmin allowed himself to fall back onto the bed next to his partner. No words need be exchanged. The anger had all but fizzled out. They were both very tired.  
Absentmindedly, Firmin drummed his fingers softly against Andre’s chest, just below his right collarbone. Ten years of missing this. Ten years and they hadn’t lost their longing for each other.  
The room didn’t smell nearly as bad as the memories had Firmin recollecting.  
“I need to get home soon.”  
“Stay,” Andre said, and Firmin was surprised at the gentleness of his tone. His hand wrapped around the arm that Firmin had draped lazily over his chest. “At least clean yourself up.”  
Ω  
An hour later found them in the bathroom, Andre once again soaking in hot water up to his ears. Firmin, mostly clothed, was cleaning himself lazily with a rag.  
  
“I implore you to not make a mess of my cabinets,” Andre said warningly, noticing the all too gleeful smirk tugging at his partner’s lips. “I intend to go to bed once you leave and I wouldn’t dare let Persephone walk in on such a sight when you drop her off.”  
  
He shuddered, not wanting to think of his darling little daughter in the midst of such disarray.  
  
“Spoilsport.”  
“Dare I say it, we should argue more.”  
“We didn’t always have to get wound up to fool around, Gilles,” Firmin noted. “It may have started that way, but often it just happened for the hell of it because we were lonely.”  
“Then why the sustained distance?” he asked, and Firmin recognized not only the wonder in his tone, but the hurt as well. He focused on tying his ascot to distract himself from it. “I know very well you’ve been lonely these past years. Even after Loren passed, you didn’t want to –”  
“I’d rather not talk about Loren now,” he said hastily. “Her spirit is going to come back to haunt me when she finds me out.”  
“Finds out what? You’re not a confirmed bachelor. You’ve had a wife and daughter to prove it.”  
  
The lack of response made Andre stop mid-wash to look up at Firmin, casting a very stern glance to himself in the mirror.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
Firmin looked at him, bouncing slightly on his feet.  
“Sleeping with you does not make me a confirmed bachelor, no.”  
“That’s not the answer I was looking for, Richard.”  
  
As he continued running the soapy cloth over his arms, his chest, the volume in his voice heightened, more pleasant.  
  
“If I may entertain the notion, I think we would be delightful together.”  
“You’ve mentioned that before.”  
“Well think of it. We started the day eating breakfast with our children. You dropped them off at school and tended to them like a mother, or at the very least a nanny.” This earned him a sharp glare. “And then we had sex as a married couple is wont to do. Aside from the recent unpleasantness, I believe I could carry out my days exactly like this.”  
“Forgive my observations should they be false, but I was under the impression you were saving this sort of day for Nat.”  
  
Firmin was tiptoeing a line between honesty and impropriety, but the evening had not seen to release him of all his frustration. Had Andre not already been in the tub and cleaning himself off, he had half a mind to pick him up go at it again. Some restraint was necessary for the occasion.  
  
“I trust you understand why I would be upset that such a secret was kept from me.”  
“I do. And I trust you understand that I did not want to keep the secret from you. I’m surprised you forgave her for keeping Sef away. I would be equally as furious if that was my daughter that was hidden from me for six years. It is not a joy of mine to make you suffer … in a public setting.”  
“We … talked of Persephone, she and I. In private.”  
  
Firmin fixed him a knowing look, perching a brow up. Crossing his arms, he rested his hip against the sink.  
  
“Did you talk, or give in to instinct?”  
“We _talked._ She explained her resistance to marrying me and apologized. I still haven’t fully forgiven her, but I assured her that my wanting to be with her isn’t just for Persephone’s sake, but from a genuine want to provide for her and our child.”  
“Did she reciprocate these feelings at all?”  
“She said she appreciated my concern but that she’s been raising Persephone on her own, and I don’t need to make such a grand gesture.”  
“And is that why you’re asking a relationship of me now? Forgive me, but all my energy right now is expended on two children and business. Yours should be your daughter and work.”  
  
The hurt teeming in Andre’s eyes was painful to witness. Had Firmin been a lesser man, he would’ve turned around and ran out. It was Andre’s “So is that a no?” that forced him to stay.  
  
“It’s a … not _yet.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Wanting to write smut but being too much of a prude to talk about a penis? More likely than you think.
> 
> I literally wrote this sex scene at 2:00 in the morning and crashed immediately after.


	9. Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice's first costume rehearsal has Firmin reflecting, and attracts the attention of an anonymous admirer. Firmin disapproves.

_Smoke clung to the air, heavy with the scent of cherries. Andre was never partial to the sickly sweetness of the fruit, but they had long ago expended their money for extra cigars. Cherry was the only flavor they had left between the two of them._  
_It did not bode well with Andre how pensively his partner stared into the fireplace. The orange and red flames that swallowed each other whole and licked the inner edge of the bricks had caught his attention for some time. It had been maybe two hours of the men circled around the fireplace, very little words exchanged between them. Whenever Andre attempted feeble conversation, it was reciprocated with an “Mm-hmm” or a nod that Andre knew belonged to other thoughts, followed by a long drag from the cigar._  
_Two hours of this. Andre decided it had been long enough._  
_Blowing the smoke from his mouth, he snuffed the rest of his cigar and stood up. Firmin’s eyes remained on the fire, yet still thousands of miles further. It wasn’t until Andre brought his face into warm hands, clambering into the chair to straddle his hips, that he came to. The gentleness with which Andre pressed their forehead together almost made Firmin throw him off, had there not been a raging fire behind him.  
_  
_“Why are you so stressed?” he asked gently.  
_  
_The hand on his face stroked his cheek once, and then his neck. Pawed at his chest, his stomach, and rested between his legs. As he made a palming motion, Firmin grabbed his wrist.  
_  
_“No,” he said. “Not tonight, Andre.”_  
_“My dearest, let me help you.”_  
_“Andre –”_  
_“We haven’t had –”_  
_“Loren’s tonics didn’t work.”  
_  
_Andre’s lips rested just above the shell of Firmin’s ear, and stayed there, unmoving as the words set in. The mention of the woman overruled the images Andre had in his mind of his plans for the next few minutes. Now he began to remember, and slowly retracted his hand from Firmin’s lifeless limb. He pulled away but remained in his partner’s lap, resting his hands on his shoulders. Firmin looked less distracted now and more irate. His gaze was unmoving from the amber inferno._  
_Andre dared to say Firmin may have wanted it to engulf him.  
_  
_“What?” was all Andre could ask, knowing just how stupid it sounded._  
_“She’s still pregnant. She promised me that she took that tonic. I saw her drink it.”  
_  
_At a loss for anything remotely helpful or intelligible to the situation at hand, Andre slowly removed himself from his partner’s lap and stood up, feeling deflated as he somewhat selfishly realized that chair sex was out of the question.  
_  
_“A stubborn fetus,” he said at last. Such a remark usually earned him a hard side-eye. It truly was a sign of Firmin’s plight that this comment received no reaction at all._  
_“She thinks this is a sign that we should keep the baby.”  
_  
_Andre nodded tightly, unsure if speaking would diffuse the tension at all. He wasn’t sure how long they sat in their respective chairs, Andre focused on Firmin, Firmin on the fireplace._  
_Eventually it had been long enough. Firmin stood at last and transferred to the window at the front of the room that overlooked Henry Square. Ever the reputable figure, Firmin always laced his hands behind his back and swelled his chest to signify a contemplative phase. In the moment, his arms hung limply at his sides. As his chest swelled, it deflated just as soon with the slump of his shoulders. Defeat flitted across his face as he swallowed tightly._  
_He turned to Andre, who watched him with mounting concern from the chair.  
_  
_“I’ll have to marry her.”  
_  
Andre sat in the theatre seat, close to the back row, listening with waning interest to their newest production in motion. He was sandwiched between father and daughter, the latter looking wholly uninterested at her libretto in the way only a fidgety child has a right to.  
  
“Papa, why do I have to stay for the whole rehearsal?” she asked with a quick glance past Andre. Her voice was close to mute, having been scolded one too many times in the past about the impropriety of talking during rehearsal. “I’m only in the one scene.”  
“Because Helene needs the day off.”  
“And, my dear,” Andre interjected, trying to sound helpful as he noticed the glower on her face, “it is important for developing a motivation for your character. We’ll be fitting you for a costume shortly. Watching the other witches may influence that decision.”  
  
While it didn’t quell her childlike irritation, she conceded to this advice with a huff and slouched down to watch without much protest or seat-kicking. Firmin looked over at her with a humph noise before focusing on the rehearsal again. There were only so many battles he could win with her in a single day.  
Barely above a whisper, he heard her voice say in a more pleasant tone, “I really like the Lady Macbeth’s costume, Monsieur Andre. Might I find a red dress like that one?”  
Ω  
_“I still do not understand the ploy, Richard.”  
_  
_Firmin sat in the corner of the room, puffing away at his tobacco pipe. It was doing little to alleviate his aching nerves. Watching Andre adjust his white cravat was making the weight of the day’s events entirely too real for him to focus on anything comforting.  
_  
_“We tell anybody who asks that Loren and I married in private three months ago,” he explained for the fourth time. “This wedding would be a display for guests.”_  
_“But today is the actual wedding?”_  
_“I would only go through with it once.” A particularly long drag from the pipe caused a trail of smoke to flit from his mouth as he next said, “Loren would be ruined if anybody guessed she was pregnant on her wedding day.”_  
_“Take it as a blessing she’s not carrying twins then. Two months would make her rather heavy with child.”  
_  
_Andre took the news of the whole affair surprisingly well. He’d thrown in a good portion of his salary to pay for a decent venue, and – though it was muddled with hints of pity and exasperation – congratulated the bride-to-be on their latest blessing._  
_He even took it in stride – after some time – that Firmin called off their hidden meetings. If he was to be a husband against his will, he may at least be a decent one.  
_  
_“I’m going to be suing that French letter factory out of a house and home.”_  
  
There was something to be said about the peculiarity of history repeating itself. Firmin was never one to give into such cliché terms, but watching Andre once again standing in front of a mirror, this time adjusting Alice’s mesh of blonde hair into a tight wig cap, sent a chill of remembrance up his spine.  
  
“My hair is too thick for this,” she complained, reaching her arm up to attempt to scratch her scalp. Realizing the endeavor was fruitless, she let it fall limply at her side.  
“Your hair is fine, my dear,” Firmin countered. “It’s only when you refuse to let me brush it.”  
“You’re too harsh with it, Papa. Only Mama or Helene can brush my hair without pulling it.”  
  
Andre let out a chuckle, still struggling to stuff her hair into the cap. When one side was crammed in, another clump of strands fell out.  
  
“You sound like Persephone.”  
“Andre, the third act is coming up. If you have any brilliant ideas, do them quickly.”  
  
Tentatively, Andre threaded the loose tendrils between his fingers.  
  
“My dear, why don’t _I_ brush your hair?”  
Ω  
_“Edmund.”  
_  
_Firmin stopped his pacing, the fifth time in the past ten minutes, and continued with a discerning shake of his head.  
_  
_“Edmund Firmin?” he considered. “Too lower-class. It sounds entirely too … old.”_  
_“We are lower-class, dear.”  
_  
_He stopped again, this time to glance at his wife. With the little window of time she had left to be able to do so, she kept one leg crossed over the other. A soft smile accentuated the hollows of her rose-tinted cheeks. Six months with child, she was constantly out of breath.  
_  
_“Still out of the question.”  
_  
_Sighing, she opened the book again, thumbing through the E names.  
_  
_“Edward?”  
_  
_A grumbling noise in his throat caused Loren to roll her eyes and slam the book shut. Running a hand through her blonde halo of hair, she struggled to hoist herself out of the chair, resting a hand just on the crest of her stomach, sheathed in a powder blue summer dress. As of late, it was the only article of clothing that fit, as it had once belonged to his mother._  
_She waddled over to him, resting a hand on the low of her cramped back.  
_  
_“Too high-class, dear?” she joked._  
_“Too fanciful.”_  
_“Fanciful?”_  
_“Edward sounds too fairytale-like.”_  
_“This is a fanciful child, it seems.”  
_  
_He was forced to agree with this. Six months of tonic and wolfing down champagne during their wedding and, though accidentally, tripping down the steps during their honeymoon and breaking her leg. Not so much as a scratch to the baby, as far as the doctors could tell. Firmin came to the realization long ago that Loren may have an iron womb.  
_  
_“Edgar,” she suggested. “Not too fanciful, not too commonplace.”_  
_“Edgar Firmin,” he tested out, surprised to find he didn’t have much distaste for it. “It wouldn’t happen to relate to that American poet you care to read to the baby, is it?”_  
_“Perhaps,” she laughed. “Edgar Richard Firmin sounds nice once you say it a few times.”_  
_“I could get used to it. And what of a girl?”  
_  
_As much as he didn’t want to entertain the notion – god forbid he one day has to handle an adolescent girl – there was a 50/50 possibility that his only child may be a daughter._  
_And by the grace of god, this would be the only one from him.  
_  
_“I like Alice,” she said. “I’ve been reading the baby Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”_  
_“Alice Firmin?”_  
_“Alice Georgette Firmin.”  
_  
_He grimaced, the likeability of the name dwindling.  
_  
_“We … can negotiate a middle name.”  
_  
“Fifteen minutes, Andre,” Firmin grumbled, checking his pocket watch for the third time.  
  
Andre had the girl resting on the floor, her hair splayed out in a mess of half-knotted, half sorted blonde streaks. Her head lay upon a spare pillow, and he – sitting on a footstool – would sort out a portion of hair and brush as delicately as a babe.  
Alice seemed to be enjoying the treatment. Firmin sighed indignantly. She never gave him the same level of calm when it came to the daily battle of hair brushing.  
Still, as long as it got done.  
  
“It’s important to do this every morning and every night, dear, to keep these unmanageable knots out of your hair,” Andre was saying softly. “My mother used to threaten to chop all my hair off as a boy if I couldn’t keep it under control. Fifty brush strokes should help you.”  
“But my hair is too long for fifty,” she countered. “I’ve been counting.”  
“A hundred brush strokes then,” he joked.  
  
A laugh came out of her, splitting her face into a wide grin. Ever the mute child, it sounded like bells to her father. Crossing his arms, he tried to stifle a smile.  
  
Thirteen minutes.  
Ω  
_If one good thing came out of this dilemma, it was that Loren gave Firmin all the attention he needed and then some as her hormones wavered._  
_Had she not suffered under the misfortune of hip pain as she grew heavier into the ninth month, he would’ve almost admitted he enjoyed the intimacy better when she was hefty, not only in her stomach, but her hands, her breasts, her delightful thighs. Before her pregnancy, it was almost as if he’d been making love to an elf. Too dainty, too lithe. Maybe that was why he preferred Andre._  
_Pregnancy had cast her almost permanently in an iridescent glow. It shone brightest when she smiled widely, her blue eyes glittering with adoration and kindness for the entire world._  
_He had to admit that the pregnancy was not the end of the world that he expected it to be._  
_They were walking arm-in-arm to Henry Square, enjoying a leisurely stroll as they waited for Andre to join them for Saturday lunch. It was the last weekend of peace they had before the babe’s expected due date the following Sunday._  
_Firmin did not intend to waste it, no matter that Loren had to lean against him to take some weight off her swollen ankles.  
_  
_“Gilles was telling me the other day,” she chattered aimlessly but pleasantly, “about the most beautiful pram in the shop window for Douceur Centrale.”_  
_“Dearest, we have a perfectly good pram at home. I just need to tighten the back wheels on it.”  
_  
_It would be a cold, cold day down under before he let Gilles drag him into that shop again. The pastels and garish porcelain dolls staring into his soul were borderline unpleasant. He shuddered, feeling his stomach tense with unease.  
_  
_“You’ve been saying that for three months now.”_  
_“And might it not be another three months before we take the baby out on a stroll?”  
_  
_Loren’s laugh ran circles around the most unmoving part of his heart. She wrapped her arm tighter around him, brushing her thumb soothingly over his bicep._  
_A gaggle of young girls neared them as they walked in a huddle in the opposite direction on the sidewalk. Should he have been a lesser husband, Firmin may have reciprocated the roving eyes they seemed to be giving him with unashamed giggles. It took a few months of self-restraint to stop him-self from such immodesty._  
_Loren, however, grasped his arm tighter. Her eyes steeled and didn’t waver from the group of girls until they were out of her husband’s line of sight. He himself had been on the receiving end of this daunting glare the past few months, when she would cry out in the middle of conversation and complain of a tiny foot or elbow hitting her ribcage._  
_Behind them, a dwindling, high voice said a biting “fat bitch.” This elicited a sudden gasp that caused Loren to clutch his arm tighter. Baffled, Firmin turned back to the girls, ready to reproach them. A soft “Ooh” caught his attention, as he recognized it as Loren’s voice. Her free hand was cradling the underside of her stomach.  
_  
_“Loren, my dearest?”  
_  
_A shaky breath was replaced with a smile to alleviate his nerves. The tension did not cease.  
_  
_“I believe the baby took more offense to the comment than I did.”_  
_“Meaning?”_  
_“Well, we may have some time, but … it might be on its way.”  
_  
Alice’s costume was not red as desired, but black, and just as brilliant in design. Black beads, adorning the waist all the way down to the hem, shimmered even in the dim backstage light. The crest of the dress was cut into an exaggerated sweetheart neckline (much to Firmin’s chagrin – he would have to have strong words with the costume designers), accentuated by the corset underneath. Her blonde hair was hidden in a tightly-woven braided black wig.  
Firmin saw more of a woman than he wanted to.  
He almost couldn’t bear to look her in the eye when she looked at him from the mirror.  
  
“Best to get to our seats now,” Andre was saying. Firmin wasn’t mistaken that he seemed rather prideful. “You do know your cue, dear?”  
“Yes, Monsieur Andre.”  
“Wonderful.”  
  
An unfamiliar emotion stirred in Firmin’s chest as he watched Andre smile at the girl and squeeze her shoulders in support. This emotion heightened when she smiled back at him, and then her father.  
Andre may have been more correct on some recent issues than Firmin would care to admit.  
Ω  
_Whatever expectations Firmin had of how the anticipated day was to go, and truthfully he hadn’t given it much thought, it was vastly different than the current reality that ensnared his senses._  
_Insistent that her contractions were not too bad at first, she continued their walk as Andre joined them. The older man expressed some discontentment for a woman in her state to be walking, but permitted her to lead the way. An amiable silence fell on the trio, until Loren would groan in agitation and be forced to rest on the nearest bench or – should they be so unlucky – against her husband._  
_An hour went by in this fashion. At Andre’s urging, the pair hailed a carriage home. The only time Firmin left her was to alert their family doctor._  
_Twenty-nine damned hours of stagnation._  
_He hadn’t expected the process to be very quick. As the son-in-law to a midwife, he was not to be kept in the dark on issues of childbirth. It was surprising but somewhat fair that a first-time birth might last twelve hours._  
_This, though._  
_This was unbearable. It was downright unacceptable._  
_Within the first twelve hours, he and Loren stayed holed up in the spare bedroom, talking and breathing and listening with mounting irritation to the midwife’s demands that he should wait outside. In hindsight, he was glad not to have listened for a while. Watching his wife sleep and become sweatier and writhe around, groaning and moaning in escalating pain was horrendous (and he seriously questioned his colleagues who demanded to have big families and go through this strenuous mess multiple times), but pacing outside the room, staring at one end of the hallway or another, was downright torture._  
_By the eighteenth hour, Loren had had enough. For some time, he tried to maintain some husbandly duties and sat in the bed with her, holding her back to his chest. As the night grew worse, stagnant still, her claws had driven into his leg and she demanded him out of the room, out, out, do not ever touch me again, damn you._  
_With some interest in the remaining hours, he noticed his home had become a charity ward. Whenever the midwife would leave, against Firmin’s protestations, she would return with another individual some several minutes later, looking very profession in a white coat or bearing towels or ropes or metal tools. He scarcely wanted to know what they were being used for._  
_Andre showed up only for a few minutes. Wanting to offer greetings to the little tyke, he scarcely got out a full sentence from the front door before Loren’s intensifying shrieking alerted him to come back at a more opportune time._  
_So Firmin sat alone in the hallway, some several hours later, realizing this was as close to hell on earth as he may ever get.  
_  
“Don’t be so nervous, Richard.”  
  
Firmin looked at his partner. As of late, Andre had been neglecting the formalities of addressing him by his surname, at least when nobody was around to hear. Their rendezvous the previous evening was having more of an effect on Andre than Firmin cared to see.  
  
“I’m not nervous.”  
“You cross your arms and tap your pinky finger when you’re nervous.”  
His eyes softened in annoyance as he realized Andre was right. A gentle laugh escaped his partner as he uncrossed his arms.  
“A bit obsessed, you are.”  
“Alice will be fine,” Andre insisted. A consoling pat on the arm did nothing for his nerves. “And it’s only a rehearsal. The more she practices, the better. The program isn’t for another week.”  
“I’m not nervous about _that,”_ he grumbled, trying to keep his focus on the unfurling swell of the transitioning orchestra. “Carlotta’s last show will gain much publicity. It needs to be _perfect.”_  
“And it will be, my dear. Have some faith in the company you keep. Ah, here she comes.”  
Ω  
_Loren had been screaming for so long that Firmin only came to attention once it ceased._  
_Twenty-nine hours. He didn’t know how much he had left in him to be away from her, nor did he see her body exerting itself much longer. The few glimpses he could handle seeing, she was lying in a thick sheen of sweat that made her nightgown stick to her skin, breathing raggedly. It was terrible._  
_When the voices of not only his wife, but the midwife and their family doctor reached dizzying crescendos that stirred the fear in his heart, he stood up without realizing it._  
_It ended as soon as it began, as if a thunder clap cowed all the rest of the world into a formidable silence. For an agonizing period, the only discernible noise was that of his wife’s heavy breathing. He must have stood dumbstruck for several minutes._  
_The door opened. The creak of the hinges, so insignificant just hours ago, was now grating on his nerves. In his line of sight, the midwife approached him, practically beaming. She, too, was sweating through her dress. It was unusually stifling for mid-April. He tugged at his collar.  
_  
_“Congratulation, Monsieur,” she whispered eagerly. “It’s a healthy baby girl.”  
_  
_Before he could process the bunch of cloth she held in her arms, it was unceremoniously transferred to his own unsuspecting hands. For a moment, he stood still, unsure of what to do or if he should move at all. Like wire, the midwife bent his arms this way and that, positioning them in such a way that the cloth was well-supported in his arms, and he got a view of the contents inside._  
_It … she, he remembered … was unusually red. Puffy eyelids stayed shut, looking as though they were to be closed permanently. Certainly he would be rather cross if somebody was to awake him from a months-long sleep. Streaks of blonde hair meshed with scarlet tinges where blood reminded him of the terrors of her violent entrance into the world. The bottom lip stuck out, making her look comically cantankerous. For a fearful moment, he thought she would open an eye and shriek, as he knew infants were wont to do._  
_Instead, as her mouth opened, an impossibly small tongue stuck out in a yawn that put some actual weight to her. She felt as thin as air, as though letting go of her would be of no consequence. She would vanish if he didn’t keep his arms around her always.  
_  
_“Madame Firmin is doing just fine,” the midwife announced happily. “You’ve a titan on your hands, Monsieur. Many a woman I’ve seen would faint trying to deliver a nine-pound babe.”  
_  
The bundle of nerves that rooted itself deeply in Firmin’s stomach loosened as Alice moved around the stage in a faultless whirlwind. As her unformed, high voice resounded around the walls with brusque precision and intense fervor, Andre grabbed his arm. It was a squeeze he came to appreciate to be ‘You worry for nothing,’ affirmed quickly by Andre’s whisper of, “She’s doing wonderfully, Richard.”  
Without taking his eyes off his daughter, Firmin could hear the smile in his voice, drowned out by her own.  
  
“- spiteful and wrathful, who as others do; loves for his own ends, _not_ for you!”  
  
Alice always towered over other children her age, and it seemed to play in her favor now, making the boldness of her speech feel more authentic and less like a child sizing up the competition. There had been rumors circulating over the nature of the manager’s young daughter being allowed a scene all to herself, and while Andre tried hard to brush them away with a waving hand and “Alice will prove them wrong, Richard,” Firmin stayed stubbornly nervous.  
  
“But make amends now, get you gone. And at the pit of Acheron, meet me i’ the morning. Thither he will come to know his destiny.”  
  
It was difficult for him to ascertain whether the scathing looks from the other three actresses was a consequence of the scene’s intensity or some outside force circulating the air surrounding the four of them.  
The gossip filled the seats regardless. Legend of the nonsensical Scottish curse buzzed about one marketplace to another, generating whispers within Firmin’s earshot that such a move after having risen from the ashes of ruin was both daring and contemptible. Nonetheless, those very same reproving voices found their way to his opera house somehow or another, begging for tickets.  
For extra precaution, Andre, nervous as he was, swore them all to an oath to refrain from saying the name Macbeth within the theatre until opening night. Firmin, ever faithful to his fanciful partner, begrudgingly agreed.  
The rehearsal went by without a hitch. No loose set pieces or willful prima donnas interrupted the flow of the production.  
Alice emerged from the dressing room, hair softer than before and bushier after being freed from the confines of the wig cap. Proudly, he clasped his hands on her shoulders, pulling her along as they started to head for the lobby.  
  
“My dear, that was wonderful.”  
“Are you sure I wasn’t too loud?”  
“There is no such thing in an opera house, Alice. Your voice carried superbly.”  
  
She eyed him carefully, echoing her mother in his mind.  
  
“You’re not just saying that because you’re my father, are you?”  
“Shall you be skeptical until opening night, when the masses praise you after the show?”  
  
Harrumphing, she put her head down.  
  
“I suppose you’re right,” she said quietly. “Look at this, Papa. Somebody left a rose on my gown while I was rehearsing.”  
  
Reaching up her hand, she stopped their walk to display to him the rose: blood red and wrapped delicately with a black band.  
  
“I have an admirer,” she said pleasantly, unable to read the displeasure etched into his deep frown as he studied the rose.  
“It would seem so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was at a stalemate of needing to write less of Persephone for a while and wanting to explore more backstory without feeling too cheesy. This is just a filler chapter and nothing of significance happens until the end, but god damn did I enjoy writing it.
> 
> A French letter is a condom, because let's face it, these men are not dad material.

**Author's Note:**

> So as I went along in the writing process of this story, I kind of envisioned Natalia as looking like Sarah Brightman in her Christine Daae days. I don't know why but it stuck with me.


End file.
